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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27787711">we found wonderland</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/taotu/pseuds/taotu'>taotu</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>ATEEZ (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Minor Jeong Yunho/Song Mingi, Minor Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Strangers to Lovers, Switching, mentions of binge drinking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 01:27:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>44,217</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27787711</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/taotu/pseuds/taotu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Wooyoung needs to figure out if Choi San is truly unavoidable, or if, deep down, he's just not trying hard enough.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Choi San/Jung Wooyoung</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>300</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. gotta go</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <span class="small">this story takes place at an ambiguously american university. i am very much not Korean so expect incorrectly-used honorifics abound!</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small">obviously a work of complete fiction. i don't support shipping idols––just an inspired story! enjoy ♥</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small">credit for SUPER COOL messaging skin <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434845/chapters/14729722">here</a>!! :)</span>
</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Yunho has a broulmate.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">“He’s just…” Yunho pauses, sighs wistfully with far too much drama, flexes his palms in the air as if it really takes <em>that much</em> effort to contain his… enthusiasm. “My <em>soul</em> lab partner.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s eyebrows knit together. “I thought you got a D on your last lab.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh. Yeah.” Yunho nods, is quick to amend his statement. “My totally-fucked-GPA notwithstanding, he’s my soul lab partner.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung frowns with lips pursed, lifts his shoulders up by his ears. “I just feel like… if he was really your <em>soul lab partner</em>, his, like, <em>soul bond</em> would tell him to make sure you didn’t fuck up the math like you always do.” Abruptly, he snags the toe of his shoe on the chunky root of a tree invading the crumbling sidewalk. His ankle twists and he yelps loud enough to wake up any and all children in the neighborhood with eight o’clock bedtimes, but he’s saved from potential facial disfiguration by Yunho’s reflexes. He’s got Wooyoung under the arm, strong and steady and grinning. And once Wooyoung’s stable, he links their arms at the elbows, which is as uncomfortable as it sounds, considering Yunho’s definitely not stooping down to his height.</p>
<p class="p1">“Wow,” Yunho breathes wondrously, and then he peers up at the stars above, eyes aglitter. “You just paid your karmic debt so fast.” He sighs again, chuckling. “Thanks, universe. That’ll teach him not to insult my soul lab partner.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung pouts resentfully, pulls up the furry collar of his jean jacket when the night wind sends chills down the back of his neck. “Just wondering, does he know you call him your <em>soul lab partner</em>, because—”</p>
<p class="p1">“Don’t,” says Yunho, and he brings Wooyoung to a stumbling stop when he freezes mid-step.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung lifts a brow, feels a smirk come on. “Don’t what?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Don’t tell him.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Yah! You expect the worst of me,” scoffs Wooyoung, batting his way out of Yunho’s grip and bunching his sleeves over his cold knuckles, though he’s nothing but amused as he continues down the sidewalk.</p>
<p class="p1">A beat of hesitation. Then, from behind him, Yunho murmurs, “He’s just so cool. I just want him to think I’m cool.” It’s endearing and sincere, but also pretty pathetic. Some random stranger-dude their age from Yunho’s chemistry class can’t be <em>that</em> great. Still, in that moment, Wooyoung feels like having a heart, so he tucks himself comfortingly into Yunho’s side, rubs warmth into his ribs, though the sly smile remains.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung decides that Yunho’s obsessive soulmate-lab-partner-crush, Song Mingi, is supremely <em>not</em> cool at first glance. When he opens the door to his dorm room, he’s smiling way too wide, wearing a shirt with what Wooyoung thinks must be an obscure video game reference, and it almost has that faux-vintage, purposefully-distressed look to it until Wooyoung realizes from closer up that it’s probably just because he’s worn it too much. But... enough with the superficiality.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung puts on a smile as Yunho introduces him to Mingi, and the exchange has all the awkward tension of Yunho bringing <em>someone special</em> home to meet his parents for the first time—Wooyoung being the parent, clearly. The way Mingi’s eyes dart anxiously from Yunho down to Wooyoung and back as he welcomes them inside doesn’t help much. But really, Wooyoung’s not <em>here</em>—in some stranger’s double dorm—to grant his approval to their soul lab partner union. He’s here for the free alcohol, and potentially to babysit a giddy Yunho unleashed on said load of free alcohol. He can’t yet know where the night will take him.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung spares a glance around the cramped dorm room, filled to the brim with <em>stuff</em>—piles of dirty laundry hastily kicked under the two twin beds, myriad bottles of cologne and empty plastic water bottles littering flat surfaces and shoved aside to make room for that night’s priority: enough people crammed inside to break a few fire codes, enough cheap vodka and Captain Morgan stuffed onto Mingi’s dresser to knock them all out cold. He has a sudden feeling the night won’t take him anywhere but right back home in the wee hours of the morning, when he inevitably opts to save the money he could’ve spent on an Uber to wrestle Yunho and his ungainly limbs down the side of the road.</p>
<p class="p1">So Wooyoung merely gives Mingi a friendly slap on the shoulder, says something distracted but genuine like <em>good to meet you, Mingi-ssi </em>but nothing about <em>soul lab partners, </em>implicitly relieves Mingi of the duty of paying attention to anyone but Yunho—who, Wooyoung should add, he’d been blatantly too happy to see when he’d flung open his door. So a geek, perhaps, but a good egg.</p>
<p class="p1">“Help yourself, help yourself,” Mingi’s bellowing over the music, gesturing to the cups and bottles on his sticky dresser. The string lights lining the ceiling, casting a strange, pink glow over the room suddenly switch to a cobalt hue, makes every bleached head in the room match the true blue of Yunho’s.</p>
<p class="p1">A guy with a mullet and blue eyeshadow leans precariously over the end of one of the beds, yells for Mingi to fix both <em>new arrivals </em>his <em>Mingi Special, </em>which Yunho delights at the sound of. Wooyoung stands a few feet off, hands in his pockets as he frowns in thought. He should’ve probably clarified with Yunho earlier that night whether this was a <em>soulmate or broulmate</em> thing, because he’s not exactly sure how much space to give them.</p>
<p class="p1">Presently, Mingi’s whirling toward Yunho and Wooyoung with a shot glass in each hand—the touristy kind with logos one finds at amusement and state parks—the alcohol layered in colorful stripes with a scary amount of professionalism. Wooyoung accepts his silently and knocks it back while Yunho’s still gushing about the artistry, making some goofy comment about <em>titration</em> and Mingi’s <em>skillz</em>. The shot goes down sickeningly sweet, and Wooyoung squints at the glass, wonders for a moment if it’s worrisome he didn’t even ask what it’d contained before ingesting it.</p>
<p class="p1">Then, “You weren’t going to introduce me?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s still examining the logo on the shot glass when Yunho’s elbow digs into his upper arm. He glances sideways accusingly, then follows Yunho’s gaze to Mingi, who’s being cuffed on the back of the head by a guy in a sleeveless top with open sides. In less-than-fifty-degree September.</p>
<p class="p1">“To Yunho? No,” says Mingi, affronted and smoothing his hair down, “because three seconds ago, you seemed perfectly fine being on the other side of the room, and now you’re suddenly here.” He snorts, takes Yunho and Wooyoung’s glasses to refill them.</p>
<p class="p1">“I changed my mind.” With little dimples on show, Mingi’s friend props his elbow on Mingi’s too-high shoulder, smiles squintingly at Yunho and Wooyoung both.</p>
<p class="p1">“Fine.” Mingi cowers slightly, perhaps to accommodate his friend’s height, or to see the liquid dribble into the shot glass in the low light as he pours it over the back of a spoon. “Choi San,” Mingi offers blankly, gives Yunho a pointed look. “He lives in this room… sometimes. Yeah. I don’t really know much about him.”</p>
<p class="p1">Choi San gives Mingi an aggressive smack on the ass. Red liquor—or perhaps it just appears red under the newly crimson glow of the string lights—sloshes from the bottle in Mingi’s hand onto the dresser. “Three years of friendship and that’s all you have to say?” deadpans San.</p>
<p class="p1">Mingi just shrugs. “Three years of forced proximity.” He then gestures with the bottle to Yunho, now smiling. “San, Jeong Yunho. We kick ass in Chem 113. And…” Wooyoung braces himself, is readily grimacing when Mingi says, “His roommate, Woosung.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Wooyoung,” corrects Wooyoung, tight-lipped.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, damn, sorry,” Mingi says, more to the shot he’s pouring than Wooyoung himself.</p>
<p class="p1">And, “Wooyoung-ssi,” says San, offering him his hand, presumably to shake. Wooyoung does so, because he’s decidedly not awkward, at least not around Yunho’s weird acquaintances. San smiles at him, tight-lipped and dark-eyed, and yeah, Wooyoung knows when he’s being blatantly checked out, but then Mingi’s shoving the second round of shots into his and Yunho’s hands.</p>
<p class="p1">The Mingi Special tastes worse the second time around. And as Wooyoung’s smacking his lips and Yunho is, again, marveling at the layers, Choi San runs his fingers through his dark hair, stretches indulgently so Wooyoung can see the ripple of muscle in his flank through the gaping side of his top. And—god, he’s looking. Abort mission. Wooyoung clears his throat and shoulders past Yunho, takes it upon himself to fill his glass with straight vodka.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“I’m not even joking. It was the most fascinating thing I’ve ever witnessed. It was like—so we talked to some random girl at the bar, right, and then five minutes later I was like, ‘Hey, Woo, wasn’t Chaeyoung so funny?’ and he was all, <em>‘Who?’</em> and I was like, ‘That girl we were just talking to, with the pink hair,’ and he was straight-up like, ‘We talked to a girl with pink hair?’ And, like—<em>every</em> five minutes, I swear, he did a full factory reset! No thoughts. Head,” Yunho starts to giggle, “<em>empty</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">He’s loud and somehow talking faster than Wooyoung’s ever heard him gab. It’s only when a genial chorus of laughter follows that Wooyoung realizes Yunho’s announcing <em>this</em> to the whole room—or, rather, the eight whole people remaining in the dorm, scattered about the floor and Mingi and San’s beds and desk chairs.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung sits up rapidly, smacks Yunho in the chest with the back of his hand. “We vowed to never talk about that again!” he hisses, and it only makes Yunho laugh more, thread his long fingers into the top of Wooyoung’s hair.</p>
<p class="p1">“But Wooyoungie, it was so funny,” he pleads, strangely smiles his way through a pout. He pinches Wooyoung’s cheek. “You were so funny. And so wasted. It was cute.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung scowls good-naturedly, pushes himself backward on the mattress so he’s propped against the wall. “Short-term memory loss isn’t cute.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Cutest scientific anomaly ever.” Yunho snickers, pulls at Wooyoung’s earlobe. Mingi’s friend with the mullet, Kim Hongjoong, seated on the floor all small and cross-legged, raises his hand like he’s a kindergartener in class, then almost placatingly volunteers a recount of a time Mingi had gotten so far as to strip out of his shirt at a club. It does make Wooyoung feel marginally better, though he has to stay on edge, knows Yunho is practically a database of all the times Wooyoung’s ever launched into an impromptu striptease, wasted or not.</p>
<p class="p1">Choi San chooses that moment to hoist himself onto the bed, wedge himself between Wooyoung and the headboard where there’s virtually zero room. But once Wooyoung’s suddenly sandwiched between San’s bony hip and Yunho’s side, Yunho politely scoots to accommodate San. It doesn’t provide Wooyoung that much relief, though. The little room is hot enough as it is, and San’s bare arm is warm against his sweater. Wooyoung knows he’s flushing in the face, can feel it, but all he does is stare into his plastic cup.</p>
<p class="p1">“Must’ve been a night of mass braincell destruction,” remarks San. It takes Wooyoung a moment to realize he’s referencing the memory loss anecdote. He smiles warily.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, I’ve made it this far without them,” mutters Wooyoung. “Living proof you can survive with a few million less.”</p>
<p class="p1">San says nothing, so Wooyoung glances his way, only to meet his eyes. San smirks for a moment, snorts softly, nudges Wooyoung gently in the side. Or then he’s just shifting. San is distressingly hot, Wooyoung thinks, or then he’s got drunk goggles on. He tries to recall his first impression of San earlier that night, and his brain gives him nothing but <em>smug asshole</em>, so maybe it <em>is</em> the wooziness in his gut and the heat in his face getting to him. Maybe a bit of San’s shapely bicep against the headboard of the bed, or his dark hair falling in soft strands against his forehead.</p>
<p class="p1">San’s studying him right back when he says, “Do you want to get some water?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung blinks. “What?”</p>
<p class="p1">San takes his wrist and slides off the bed. And Wooyoung, clutching onto his plastic cup and maybe a measly few threads of tipsy sanity, looks over at Yunho with wide eyes, hoping for some sort of exchange, an acknowledgement that <em>this</em>, <em>something</em>, is happening, but Yunho’s staring at Mingi and San is fast and persistent and Wooyoung is following, apparently.</p>
<p class="p1">They sidestep Kim Hongjoong, who raises a pierced eyebrow at San, then smiles sweetly at Wooyoung.</p>
<p class="p1">San pulls open a door that Wooyoung expects to lead back into the hallway but actually opens to a tiny bathroom. The sink is cluttered with hair products, and Wooyoung must’ve made some sound of surprise because San’s chuckling, leading him to a door opposite the one they’d entered through, and then they’re standing in someone else’s single dorm room, a fair bit neater than the chaos in San and Mingi’s.</p>
<p class="p1">San shuts the door behind him and unhands Wooyoung, leaving him to idle in the middle of the gray-speckled carpet, eyeball the figure drawings pasted onto the walls.</p>
<p class="p1">“This isn’t water,” says Wooyoung, blinking and glancing toward San.</p>
<p class="p1">San watches him with those warm, smiling eyes, hands in his tight jean pockets, until Wooyoung’s voice seems to belatedly register with him. “What?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s lips twitch, amused. “We were… getting water.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh.” San rubs his hand over his forehead, pushes off the door and turns in an aimless sort of circle. “Oh, right. Yeah, let’s—hydrate. Give me that.” He reaches for Wooyoung’s cup, and Wooyoung flinches away, stare incredulous. San’s hand is still proffered. “I’ll rinse it out, come on.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s nose wrinkles. He peeks inside the cup. “No, that’s still gross.” He swirls the alcohol around. It looks volatile in the yellowy lighting of the neighbor’s room. “It’ll be water mixed with, like, dregs of red dye number five. And rubbing alcohol.”</p>
<p class="p1">San laughs, dimpling, and steps closer. “But you’ve been drinking red dye number five and rubbing alcohol all night, what’s the difference?”</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s just the idea of it watered down, okay? Makes me want to gag,” Wooyoung protests, <em>whines</em>, maybe, but pouting at San doesn’t work the way it does with Yunho, because San’s making another go at his cup when Wooyoung stumbles back and loses his grip and—spills red dye number five all over the carpet.</p>
<p class="p1">He stares downward, hands hesitantly hovering at his chest, watches miserably as the concoction soaks into the carpet like some violently vibrant chemical he can’t be sure won’t corrode right through the floor. “Fuck,” he whispers, and San stoops to collect his conquest: the red cup.</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s okay, this is Yeosang’s room. He won’t kill you,” offers San as he springs to his feet. Wooyoung forgets if he’s met a Yeosang<em>,</em> but that thought is moot when a giggle suddenly bubbles its way out of his chest.</p>
<p class="p1">San freezes, halfway to the bathroom door. He looks Wooyoung up and down, then asks him, “What?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung shakes his head, grabs onto the nearest support—a bedpost—as he laughs shrilly. “Dunno,” he breathes, and when San turns his back, he blurts, “Wait!”</p>
<p class="p1">He hastily jogs those three feet separating them, shoulders past San into the bathroom to gather up an overzealously large wad of toilet paper. San watches, frozen in the bathroom doorway with a faint smile.</p>
<p class="p1">“You’re cute,” he mutters, and Wooyoung rolls his eyes, still chuckling as he squeezes past San. It shouldn’t occur to him right <em>then</em> how good San smells in passing, but it’s what he’s thinking about as he stamps the toilet paper bundle into the puddle with his foot, watches with a vague sense of satisfaction as the red mess seeps into it like blood.</p>
<p class="p1">San joins him a moment later, stands so they’re shoulder to shoulder, and holds a cup of reassuringly clear water underneath Wooyoung’s nose.</p>
<p class="p1">“Thank you,” says Wooyoung, calm as ever, or so he tells himself as he takes the cup. While he’s sipping, San points a finger at the monstrosity on the carpet.</p>
<p class="p1">“You did a good job.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung grins despite himself. And again, cordially, “Thank you.” He glances to his right, and San is so close. They’re close in height, too. He can’t quite tell if it’s San’s shoes that make him that bit taller. Wooyoung lifts the cup up near San’s lips, and San makes a soft noise, something like <em>mmm</em> as he goes to wrap his fingers around it, but Wooyoung only shakes his head like <em>uh-uh.</em> San gives him a very sweet glare as he lets Wooyoung tip the cup toward his mouth.</p>
<p class="p1">And then, when San pushes Wooyoung’s wrist away, there’s a moment that they simply stand there, each watching the other. The very unflattering glow from the shitty ceiling light casts flattering hollows under San’s high cheekbones, and Wooyoung clears his throat, looks decisively at the desk. Strewn among the laptop and books and piles of papers are little clay sculptures of animals. He has to smile. “So,” says Wooyoung.</p>
<p class="p1">As San pockets his hands again, his shoulder brushes Wooyoung’s. It should be bizarre, and maybe it is, standing there together in the near-silence of some stranger’s room as both Mingi’s music and enthusiastic hollering next door filter in through the thin walls, but Wooyoung thinks it might be just the right amount of bizarre. “You look like you’re thinking too hard,” says San, and his elbow digs into Wooyoung’s. Wooyoung’s still deliberately staring at a molded clay giraffe.</p>
<p class="p1">“Eh.” He lifts his brows. “Just wondering why we’re here.” He smiles, innocent enough, eyes flickering to and away from San in his periphery.</p>
<p class="p1">“I don’t know.” San’s swaying a bit on his feet—either from drunkenness or from some innate need to constantly poke at Wooyoung. “There were too many people back there. I just wanted to talk to you.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung bites his lip. “Talk.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah,” San mutters, casual.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung turns slightly, looks at San’s hyper-focused, shadowed eyes. “You wanted to <em>talk</em> to me.”</p>
<p class="p1">San’s eyebrows pique swiftly. His lips curve at one side. “Mhm.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Are you sure?”</p>
<p class="p1">San breaks eye contact to tilt his head backward, assess the ceiling. Wooyoung’s sure he’s reflecting <em>so</em> very deeply. Then he comes back, still smiling, and rolls his shoulders, stretches out his neck. “Yep.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Okay. Talk. Yeah, let’s talk.” Wooyoung nods, a snappy tip of his chin. “What about?”</p>
<p class="p1">San laughs, eyes asquint, and Wooyoung kind of loves that he sees it coming, the way San steps into his space and takes him by the jaw and leans in close, breathes in deep through his nose before he kisses Wooyoung lightly, just a faint, off-kilter brush of lips.</p>
<p class="p1">The plastic cup crackles loudly under the pressure of Wooyoung’s tensing grip, and as Wooyoung holds his breath, San mechanically draws back an inch, takes the cup from him, and sets it somewhere presumably safe, murmuring, “Don’t drop that.” The way he gently pats Wooyoung’s cheek is almost condescending, and Wooyoung is tempted to glare, but San makes up for it when he crowds in close again, kissing Wooyoung like he knows what he wants. Wooyoung’s hands drift to his hips and his back hits the hard bedpost and he parts his lips for San before he realizes he’s doing it, lets out a keen that’s accidentally porny when San tilts his head back for him, licks past his lips and into his mouth. He’s so solid under Wooyoung’s hands, so warm, and the material of his top is so thin it might as well not be there. Its only apparent purpose is to keep Wooyoung from seeing San completely shirtless which, like, <em>goddammit</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung exhales shakily between the sparse separations of their lips. The bedpost digs into his back and his fingertips into San’s, and he feels drunker than before when San nudges their foreheads together, a blur of mischief in Wooyoung’s vision, and bites Wooyoung’s bottom lip between grinning teeth.</p>
<p class="p1">“Ow,” huffs Wooyoung, completely and utterly unharmed, and tips his head away to tug his lip back, and San giggles and it’s <em>cute</em> and <em>weird</em> but hot and Wooyoung resents Yunho a marginally lesser amount for dragging him along.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung is wrapped up in the playfulness of San’s gaze when he wraps those fine fingers around Wooyoung’s neck, fingertips digging into his flesh. Wooyoung’s breath stutters, and his cheeks go pink at the sound of it. San looks almost devious, and he muses, “Did I say you were cute already?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung snaps out of it—<em>it</em>, whatever trance he’d slipped into—and huffs a laugh, swallows against the pressure of San’s hand. “Probably.”</p>
<p class="p1">Commotion from the bathroom startles them both. Wooyoung hears a door squeaking on its hinges, followed swiftly by a series of terse knocks on the closer bathroom door that echoes through the emptiness around himself and San. Then, “What—why am I knocking on my own door, fuck.” The door flies open, and in marches—well, Wooyoung’s not sure <em>who</em>, but he was probably in Mingi’s room earlier because Wooyoung wouldn’t forget a face like that.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeosangie!” San greets brightly, still with hands pasted to Wooyoung’s face and neck, but Yeosang rebuffs him with a shake of his head.</p>
<p class="p1">“No. No. No, no, no,” Yeosang states, and he makes a beeline for the pair of them, takes them each by a shoulder and shoves them apart. He makes purposeful eye contact with San and points a fingertip at his nose to say, again, “<em>No</em>,” and then turns to Wooyoung to add, “Hi, but yeah, also no, this is not happening, not in my room, not on—my bed.” He peers around Wooyoung, probably to make sure his bedcovers are untouched. “Yep.” He takes a backward step, wipes his palms off on the sides of his jeans. Wooyoung blinks, overwhelmed. “I was <em>just</em> now,” Yeosang raises his voice, pitches it over his shoulder toward the open bathroom door, “<em>kindly</em> alerted by Hongjoong-hyung that San had disappeared into my room with potentially salacious intentions. <em>Just</em> now. Not when it happened, you know, fifteen minutes ago.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Are their clothes still on?” Hongjoong peers around the open door, fingers half-covering his eyes, but drops his hand and grins at the trio once he determines the coast is clear. “Wow! Look at that.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung decides he’s had enough gawking, that the <em>mood</em> is gone. Or, rather, it’s been decimated. He points his thumb toward the door, avoiding San’s eyes, and says, “Can I—?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Please,” huffs Yeosang, and steps out of his way.</p>
<p class="p1">“Great.” Wooyoung meanders to the bathroom door, where Hongjoong’s still smiling at him. His eyes narrow, but he says nothing as he returns to Mingi’s room, wholly ready to leave the dorm, or launch himself out a window if that isn’t an option.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung had been sure Yeosang had made a scene—behind him, Wooyoung hears Hongjoong say, “Sannie, your game is slipping,” to which San protests, “I got distracted! And… I dropped my drink,” and Yeosang cries, “You <em>wha</em>—? You’re deep-cleaning that or I kill you”—but next door, the two girls who’d been present earlier are gone, and Yunho and Mingi are hunched over Mingi’s desktop computer watching Youtube way too intently, conversation hushed. Wooyoung rolls his eyes.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yunho.” No response. <em>“Yunho.”</em></p>
<p class="p1">Yunho whirls around in the spinning chair, hugging the backrest to his chest, eyes wide as he zones in on Wooyoung. “Oh my god, you’re alive,” he breathes in genuine shock, though it’s clear no thoughts of Wooyoung have crossed his mind since they first arrived. “I thought you ditched me!”</p>
<p class="p1">“I was ten feet away the whole time,” mutters Wooyoung, fiddling with the hem of his sweater. Mingi’s paused the video now, also swiveling to face Wooyoung. He looks at him like he knows all of Wooyoung’s most twisted secrets, which—okay. Wooyoung frowns, looks to Yunho. “Can we go?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh.” Yunho checks the time. “Oh, fuck, it’s late. Yeah, yeah, sure.” And Wooyoung would feel guilty about dragging Yunho back home with him, but then Kim Hongjoong schleps back into the room, and the combined weight of his enigmatic gaze and Mingi’s impertinent one cancel out all of Wooyoung’s worries about ruining Yunho’s night.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung hovers near the door with his jacket hanging from his fingertips, feeling tired and very much not suave while Yunho bids Mingi goodbye. He’s mid-yawn, eyes squeezed shut tight, when San sidles up to him. Again, they’re shoulder to shoulder.</p>
<p class="p1">“Sorry about that,” San says, eyes smiling.</p>
<p class="p1">“Mhm.” Wooyoung is unsure how well he’s able to tamp down on his own smile, chin tipped toward his chest, but then Yunho appears and Wooyoung makes a grab for his arm. “Yunho-yah,” he pleads like it’s his dying wish, voice crackling for maximum dramatic effect, “<em>piggyback</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">Yunho looks at San with mock-exasperation, but predictably, he stoops for Wooyoung to climb on. “Only ’til we have to walk uphill.”</p>
<p class="p1">In Wooyoung’s periphery, San smiles wryly. “Bye, Wooyoung-ssi.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">On the uphill to their apartment, Yunho says, “So… San seemed pretty into you.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung pulls his jacket tighter across his chest, but the night is frigid and his efforts are futile. “Choi San?”</p>
<p class="p1">Yunho laughs. “Somehow I must’ve missed that there were other Sans in the room. <em>Yeah</em>, him, the dude who introduced himself directly to you and completely ignored me.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung doesn’t think that’s quite fair. He’s also mildly surprised Yunho had paid San even a morsel of attention. “Well, your <em>Mingi</em> called me <em>Woosung!”</em></p>
<p class="p1">“My—? It was loud in there!”</p>
<p class="p1">“He’s also way less cool than you think he is.” Wooyoung side-eyes Yunho, and then the uneven patches on the sidewalk, because karma will not catch him this time. “Like, just as uncool as you. Totally in your league, in case you were worried about a cross-league soulmate. Broulmate. Whatever. You two even have it in common that all your friends are way too cool for you. Like me, for example. And Kim Hongjoong. I’d ask why a cool Masters student would hang out with <em>Song Mingi,</em> but that’d also beg the adjacent question <em>why does Wooyoung hang out with Yunho,</em> which is an unsolved mystery.”</p>
<p class="p1">Yunho’s eyes narrow. Wooyoung gives him a coquettish smile, plasters himself to his side and perches his chin on Yunho’s shoulder.</p>
<p class="p1">“Words hurt,” says Yunho.</p>
<p class="p1">“I love you.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Shut up.” Yunho sighs out, and Wooyoung thinks it might be just cold enough that he can see Yunho’s breath against the pitch-black sky. “You think Mingi’s friends are cool, huh? Cool, like… Choi San?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung glowers. He’s not sure it’s worth it to be so melodramatic—he’d made out with San for two seconds, was promptly cockblocked, then left unscathed (but for a few shreds of his dignity)—yet he is nonetheless. “I think I like it better when you forget I exist.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p><hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung sits at a table outside the ugliest building on campus—a literal obtrusive concrete block that mars the skyline no matter where one’s standing within several miles’ radius—reading the same paragraph in his textbook for probably the fifth time. But from the corner of his eye, he sees something distinct halt against a backdrop of routinely bustling students at the turn of the hour.</p>
<p class="p1">Tentatively, Wooyoung lifts his head, pen dangling between his teeth.</p>
<p class="p1">Choi San stands there like a roadblock to the people shouldering past, clad in lightwash jeans and a fuzzy, pink sweater, looking… all too delighted. And directly at Wooyoung.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung swallows, and an amalgamation of embarrassment and shyness and a bizarre desire to laugh hits him like a truck. He glances down at his book, then back up again at San.</p>
<p class="p1">“Wooyoungie,” greets San, who has known Wooyoung for all of three hours, and instead of taking a seat at the side of the table nearer to him like a normal person, he circles the table, collapses into the empty spot on the bench beside Wooyoung. San sets a little box of dumplings on the table, the plastic steamy. Their thighs are already touching.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung casts a glance about him, but apparently nobody with a class within the next few minutes gives a shit about his inner turmoil. Which, now that he thinks about it, might be a good thing. Maybe his poker face is working. “Hi,” he says, watching San lace his fingers together and rest his chin atop them.</p>
<p class="p1">“So you remember me?” San inquires, brightening. And—<em>sure</em>, he looks a bit different without the heavy eyeshadow and all the bare skin, but those dimples are unmistakable in the daylight.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung snorts, clicks his pen against his book a few times. “I wasn’t that fucked up.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Just checking.” San shrugs. His eyes flit over Wooyoung’s face almost appreciatively—not that Wooyoung would deign to be so presumptuous. San’s back straightens and he tugs at the corner of Wooyoung’s textbook, drags it closer to the table’s edge. “Mm. You looked so studious over here. Sorry to interrupt.” He doesn’t sound even a bit apologetic.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung laughs and rubs his fingertips into his right eye. “That <em>is</em> the vibe I’m trying to project when I’m actually averaging half a page per hour.”</p>
<p class="p1">San smiles, tight-lipped like he’s trying not to bare his teeth, and then abruptly reaches backward for the backpack he’d so ungraciously dumped on the ground, produces a pair of bamboo chopsticks and pops the lid on his food container. “Jjin-mandu?” he says, and Wooyoung’s only just registering the offer—he’d scarfed down his own lunch at home not much earlier—by the time San has a dumpling held to his mouth, already brushing his lips. “<em>Aah</em>,” San enunciates, mouth in an oval like he’s a heartbeat away from chirping <em>here comes the airplane!</em>, and Wooyoung blinks in a flutter and compliantly opens his mouth to take in the dumpling. San beams. Wooyoung closes his mouth, chews tentatively.</p>
<p class="p1">“We should study together,” sighs San as his eyes drift over cloudy sky, tapping his chopsticks to his lower lip. “I’m not kidding, you looked <em>so</em> concentrated. I need that kind of scholarly pressure in my life.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung covers his mouth to laugh, bewildered, hasn’t even been able to swallow yet. “I’m not the beacon of academic excellence you think I am,” he mutters, mouth half-full. <em>Frankly, you know nothing about me,</em> he doesn’t say, watching San’s sharp profile, the fit of his pink sweater across his shoulders. And Yunho would probably cry himself laughing at the thought of Wooyoung shining his <em>benevolent academic light</em> on anyone at all.</p>
<p class="p1">“But I like the way you look when you’re thinking.” San says it not to Wooyoung’s face, but perhaps to the sculpture a hundred feet away, then sighs again, shoulders settling as he looks at Wooyoung. He switches his chopsticks to his other hand, tugs his sleeve above the bones of his wrist, and lays his hand palm-up on Wooyoung’s textbook. “Write your number there.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung finally swallows, slow to process… any of this. “Where?”</p>
<p class="p1">San taps his chopsticks against his upturned hand.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s eyes flash to him warily, and he considers pulling a fake number out of his ass, but there’s something about San and his smiling eyes that compel him to lean over, click his pen open, and write his phone number in black ink on the fleshy bit below San’s thumb. “It’ll probably smudge,” he murmurs as an afterthought, blows gently on San’s skin before he realizes exactly what he’s doing and freezes.</p>
<p class="p1">But San only grins, taps Wooyoung underneath the chin with his fingertip. “But it won’t, because I won’t touch a <em>thing</em> with this hand,” he declares, and as if to drive his point home, he pinches another dumpling between his chopsticks, feeds it insistently to Wooyoung, then goes about climbing off the bench and gathering his belongings, one hand raised all the while.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s ridiculous. Wooyoung fights a smile, but San’s abandoning him with a mouth full of jjin-mandu, so he covers it again, just to be safe.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’ll text you,” says San, now on his feet, bag slung over his shoulder. He nods resolutely at Wooyoung. “I will.” But then he squints at the clocktower in the distance, swears under his breath, and legs it toward the nearest stairs.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p><hr/>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">He’s admittedly already distracted—slumped low in the back row of the half-empty lecture hall, feet pressed against the seat in front of him with his knees close to his chest, the professor up front reading off her projected slides and Wooyoung attentively, <em>diligently</em> scrolling through Instagram—when a text comes in from an unknown number.</p>
<p class="p1">Somehow, within twenty-something hours, he’d managed to forget he’d written his number on Choi San’s hand. He hadn’t even had a chance to mention it to Yunho the day before, had passed out for the night by the time Yunho had returned home from teaching dance class.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung squints at his screen.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Unknown</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">wyd rn :)</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p class="p1">He snorts. Audibly. And his eyes flicker to and fro as he attempts to disguise the heinous noise as a cough, but his ass is covered; the same way no one’s paying attention to the professor, no one’s paying him any mind, either.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Unknown</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">san???</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">damn right</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">answer my q</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p class="p1">Wooyoung arches an eyebrow.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Unknown</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">im in class</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">come study w me</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">dude</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">i just said im in class</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">maybe u are a beacon</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">lol what</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">nvm</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">whens it over</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p class="p1">Wooyoung looks at the time, wonders if he’s demonstrating his weakness, <em>caving</em> to San when he tells him, truthfully:</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Unknown</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">15 mins</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">haha ok come over after~</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">to study?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">ofc ^-^</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p class="p1">Wooyoung rubs at his brow, smiles a bit in disbelief.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Unknown</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">or to drink water?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">funny.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">hydration?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">just come over &gt;.&lt;</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p class="p1">The worst part is, even though he spent the majority of the walk to San and Mingi’s dorm ruthlessly teasing Yunho, Wooyoung can’t even pretend he’s forgotten how to navigate his way there.</p>
<p class="p1">He leaves San on <em>Read. </em>The clock on the wall behind him decides to move in slow-mo for those last fifteen minutes.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Choi San</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">which floor was it</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">omg hi *-*</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">6</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p class="p1">Wooyoung spirals into instant regret the moment San pulls open the door, smiley and—and very stripey, going by his shirt. The regret stems mainly from the fact that <em>Mingi</em> is clearly visible over San’s shoulder, curled up in a blanket heap on his bed with his laptop, wearing big glasses and big headphones.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, don’t worry,” says San, wrapping his fingers around Wooyoung’s wrist and dragging him over the threshold. “He won’t distract us. You.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung meets San’s eyes skeptically, but he puffs out a breathy laugh and nods, toes out of his boots. Miraculously, he doesn’t vocalize his thoughts, which are mostly along the lines of: <em>what the hell am I doing.</em></p>
<p class="p1">“Come sit!” trills San, skipping over to his bed and climbing deftly on. He sits against the headboard, laptop in his lap, and pats the covers, and Wooyoung has to wonder vaguely that if he turned off the sunshine outside and the overheard lights, would this all transform into that other room, that other San on the bed under those blueish lights from last weekend?</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung approaches with some hesitance, books and laptop clutched to his chest, and at San’s encouraging nod, he hoists himself onto the mattress. He’s graced with a head-on view of Mingi, who, under his blanket cocoon, meets Wooyoung’s eyes over the edge of his laptop and gives him a silent wave.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung nods, which is weird and stupid and cordial, but neither San nor Mingi bat an eye.</p>
<p class="p1">“Mingi has no classes on Thursdays,” San explains, and he’s tucking his bare toes under Wooyoung’s thigh, wriggling them until he’s satisfied. “So he spends his free time constructively: watching Mortal Kombat gameplay videos from dawn ’til dusk. Or—more like noon ’til dawn. He got up two hours ago.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung laughs, <em>genuinely</em>, an unintentionally squeaky sound, and San smirks, trains his eyes on his laptop screen. <em>Right. Down to business, then.</em> He has an essay to start for his first-year writing requirement that he never took and is, naturally, forced to take as a senior—as a well-aged hard cheese among all the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed soft cheeses. And as it’s a class he gives maybe a half a fuck about, and he has a feeling his brain won’t be functioning at full capacity while he’s on Choi San’s bed, it might be the best place to start.</p>
<p class="p1">San isn’t a <em>bad</em> study buddy. He doesn’t necessarily bother Wooyoung, but he does make the occasional <em>hmm</em> at something on his screen without ever bringing it up, picks at his lower lip like he’d once had a piercing there. It’s… mildly distracting. He connects his phone to a speaker and puts on some rap Wooyoung might recognize if the volume weren’t so fucking low, but he doesn’t ask San to raise it.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s been some twenty minutes when San suddenly shifts, pulling his foot free so he can nudge Wooyoung’s leg with it. “How’s it going over there?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung, blinking his glazed-over eyes for the first time in a few minutes, nods and runs his tongue over his teeth. He balances his laptop on San’s bent knees, presenting him with a text document, virtually empty but for a few words in Times New Roman: <em>Through the lens of</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">San claps, grinning sunnily. “Great, splendid. Sound start. It can only go up from here.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck off,” chuckles Wooyoung, retracting his laptop and pulling his dangling feet up onto the bed. And if in crossing his legs, his knee rests rather heavily against San’s calves, there’s nothing that intentional about it. “I’d like to see you one-up that.”</p>
<p class="p1">San’s smile turns sly, though if Wooyoung really thinks about it, there might be a permanence to that sly edge about San’s entire being. “I’m just doing some… very important research,” he murmurs, eyes trained on his laptop screen. He glances fleetingly at Wooyoung, then turns his laptop around on his thighs, where Instagram is pulled up,<em> j.wy</em> in black text front and center, familiar tagged photos on display below.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yah, what the fuck,” sputters Wooyoung, and San evades him when he gropes for the laptop, catches Wooyoung by the wrist and shoves him away, “get off my socials!”</p>
<p class="p1">San squishes himself as far back against the headboard as he can go, knees pulled up tight and screen nearly glued from his eyes. “I can’t,” he squawks, laughing airily. “You’re so photogenic!”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung deflates against the wall in defeat, head slumped to his shoulder, stares at the reflection of the screen in San’s dark irises. <em>More like Yunho’s a good photographer.</em> He finds himself laughing, too, despite the humiliation, kicking his legs out straight. “At least follow me if you’re gonna stalk.”</p>
<p class="p1">San ignores him. “This one’s pretty sexy,” he says offhandedly, smiling devilishly at his screen, and Wooyoung decides it’s not too late to reclaim his pride.</p>
<p class="p1">With the subtlest of movements, Wooyoung cranes his arm out to stash his laptop safely on San’s dresser, doesn’t look away from him once should he try to pull some ninja move on Wooyoung. And once he’s shifted back upright, eyes glued to his impending victim, he takes a centering breath. And pounces on San.</p>
<p class="p1">San screeches, and no noses or fingertips are harmed in the process of Wooyoung slamming shut San’s laptop, tearing it from his fingers and fumbling backward on the mattress. He nearly rolls over the edge of the bed, laptop cradled tightly his chest, but San gets him by the thighs just as he’s slipping, hauls him onto steady ground, blanket rumpling underneath him.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung is on his back, eyes wide. San kneels between his legs with eyebrows raised.</p>
<p class="p1">“Sneak attack,” hums San appraisingly. He pats Wooyoung on the hip. “Very cute.” Then he shrugs, nose crinkling. “But I’ve already scrolled through your Instagram, like, five times. Your efforts were in vain.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s heart is still thumping at double-speed from exhilaration. He drops his head back, stares at the bumpy ceiling, eases the laptop from his clutches. And his eyes track back to San as he slides it closer to him, as far as his fingertips can reach. “I give up,” he tells him, a mere croak. And pointedly doesn’t think about San scrounging through his Instagram.</p>
<p class="p1">“Do you.”</p>
<p class="p1">Awareness seeps into Wooyoung’s bones that not only is San between his legs, but that his thighs are literally spread, that his jeans are way too tight to be laying like this.</p>
<p class="p1">San takes his laptop, leans over the edge of the bed to lay it on the floor, humming all the while to some tune totally discordant with the rap still quietly thumping in the background. And once he’s back on the bed, he crawls on all fours over Wooyoung, hands bracketing his head, quads pressing into the backs of Wooyoung’s thighs. Wooyoung feels trapped and helpless and a little dumb, and yet, to some degree, he’s reveling in it, too, being at San’s mercy, watching his soft hair fall away from his forehead.</p>
<p class="p1">“What… what are you doing,” mumbles Wooyoung, and his hands, fumbling to do something other than lay inert at his sides, link over his stomach. He laughs—unexpectedly, at that, but he should probably be growing used to it by now.</p>
<p class="p1">San grins. “Looking at you.” He shrugs so his shoulders brush his ears. “What are <em>you</em> doing?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung laughs again, quieter, airer, eyes trained on the striped shirt pulled taut across San’s chest. “Um…”</p>
<p class="p1">“Allow me to rephrase.” Wooyoung squints into the ether past San’s ribs, because <em>who actually says that?</em> But then San’s clearing his throat, and Wooyoung feels a finger brush the tender skin behind his ear. “What do you <em>want</em> to be doing?”</p>
<p class="p1">Their gazes lock. San’s biting his lip, either put-on and pompously sexy or just <em>naturally</em> sexy, or a mix of both, and Wooyoung swallows before he sputters out, “You’re really fucking cocky.”</p>
<p class="p1">San’s smile returns, wider this time. “Only sometimes.” Then he leans down until their noses touch. Wooyoung feels his back arch unconsciously from the mattress, and though he breathes in deep, San’s eyes blurring before his own, he doesn’t release.</p>
<p class="p1">“Can I kiss you,” San whispers, and, dizzily, Wooyoung huffs, “Well, you’re already down here, <em>so</em>—”</p>
<p class="p1">All at once, San bears his weight down against Wooyoung, slots their lips together, and Wooyoung’s clumsy fingers bump San’s chest on their way up to curl into the back of his hair. Wooyoung hums faintly as San sucks over his lower lip, tongues back into his mouth, and, <em>god, is this a thing he does now? </em>Hooking up between classes with some random dude he met last week? For a second, the cogs in his brain falter, and he has to mull over the question of <em>is this actually going where I think it’s going</em> until San answers it for him. He scrapes his teeth over Wooyoung’s lip, rolls his hips languidly, indulgently, layers of scratchy jeans between them, balances his weight on one hand to hike Wooyoung’s thigh up higher with the other.</p>
<p class="p1">There’s a warm buzzing under Wooyoung’s skin. He exhales, shaky, as San drags his lips down to his jaw, and goes to hook his other knee around San’s hip when he remembers.</p>
<p class="p1">“Wait,” he breathes, “<em>wait</em>, wait, wait.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Mm?” San appears in his line of sight again, lips dark pink and wet. He licks over them again, which is all too fascinating for Wooyoung’s barely-there attention span. He wills his eyes back up to San’s, jerks his head pointedly toward the opposite side of the room.</p>
<p class="p1">All too brazenly, San props himself on both hands as he looks toward Mingi’s bed. Reluctantly, Wooyoung peeks over, too, half-shielded by San’s forearm.</p>
<p class="p1">Mingi’s glaring at them. The afternoon sunlight pouring in through the windows glints off his glasses, concealing his eyes, but the outraged set of his mouth speaks to his whole countenance. “Oh, so <em>now</em> you remember I’m still here,” he grouses, “and <em>yes</em>, I have been! The whole time!”</p>
<p class="p1">“Were you <em>watching?”</em> San asks, incredulous and amused. Wooyoung’s hands fall from San’s hair to his shoulders.</p>
<p class="p1">“I was just <em>waiting</em>—”</p>
<p class="p1">“So you would’ve <em>kept</em> watching.” San cackles dryly, sneaks a conspiratorial look at Wooyoung. “Song Mingi, you dirty, dirty pervert,” he singsongs, lifts his volume to drown out Mingi’s infuriated groan.</p>
<p class="p1">“You can’t just…” Mingi protests weakly, flaps a hand at them. “I was here first!”</p>
<p class="p1">San rolls his eyes. “That’s not a fair argument. You haven’t left that bed since, like, five last night.”</p>
<p class="p1">Mingi goggles. “I <em>live</em> here!”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s eyes flit back and forth like he’s observing a tennis match.</p>
<p class="p1">For a moment, San says nothing—just sighs audibly, and when he glances at Wooyoung, it’s mainly at his mouth. Then he flicks his wrist toward the bathroom. “Go to Yeosang’s room,” he tells Mingi.</p>
<p class="p1">Mingi is petulant, voice climbing an octave. “<em>You</em> go to Yeosang’s!” His eyes snap to Wooyoung, who squirms under San. “Both of you!”</p>
<p class="p1">“Logistically, that makes zero sense.” San rubs a hand over his eyes, then points a flattened palm at Mingi. “Look, you’ve wasted enough of me and Wooyoung’s time. Yeosang’s at the studio all day. Just—take your fucking Mortal Kombat camp and move it over there. He’ll never know, if that’s what you’re scared of.”</p>
<p class="p1">Still encased in his blanket, Mingi moves off the bed as one long, formless lump. “I’m not <em>scared</em> of him,” he grumbles, and a hand darts out from between the blankets to gather up his miscellaneous equipment—cords, headphones, computer—and swallow it into his cocoon. “Do <em>not</em> take your time<em>.</em> And you owe me way more than you think you do.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung watches him shuffle off, hears the squeak of the bathroom door hinges somewhere behind him, its aggressive slam.</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck’s sake,” mumbles San, but he’s smiling again, childish and soft, as he scans Wooyoung’s face. “Someday I’ll explode—<em>literally</em> explode—and it’ll be very messy and very colorful, all over this room, and you can tell Song Mingi I warned him.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung frowns, nose crinkling. “Why do I have to tell him?”</p>
<p class="p1">San chuckles, pinches the very middle of Wooyoung’s cheek. “Because I <em>exploded,</em> remember? I won’t be around to.” He pats Wooyoung’s face, and then he’s rising up onto his knees. With wandering eyes, San brushes his fingertips down the inseam of Wooyoung’s jeans, from his crotch to his knee. The corners of his lips tug when Wooyoung flinches, nerve endings on fire. “Do you wanna, like…” He cocks his head to the side, draws a shape with his fingertip on Wooyoung’s knee.</p>
<p class="p1">Mentally, Wooyoung fills in the blank. And all options sound like… desirable courses of action. He sits up against his elbows, has to clear his throat to breathe, “Yeah,” but it still comes out hoarse, and San grins.</p>
<p class="p1">He turns up his music, finally.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“<em>San</em>—San, San,” Wooyoung pants, muffled by the pillow pinned between his elbows. For the fact that it’s the pillow San sleeps on, he’s definitely sweating on it a gross amount.</p>
<p class="p1">He’s got his ass propped up for San—knees spread so wide he’s at risk of sliding into a straddle—who’s taking far more time than Wooyoung’s accustomed to to prep him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yes, yes, yes?” San jeers, running a warm palm up the small of Wooyoung’s back. He’s just pressed a third, lube-slick finger inside of Wooyoung, who half-whines, half-breathes out brokenly into the pillow.</p>
<p class="p1">“Bastard,” he chokes out, giggles despite himself. “I’m—<em>please</em>. No need for such… <em>ceremony</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">“But I like this ceremony.” San strokes over his prostate, over and over, happily pats the side of Wooyoung’s ass. “Great view. Also, I have selective hearing, and who am I to disobey Song Mingi’s orders to take my time?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung has lube dripping down his balls. “God,” he hisses, and it’s a struggle to string his words together. “Don’t—don’t talk about Mingi.”</p>
<p class="p1">San laughs gleefully. “Oh no, Wooyoungie, is it killing your boner?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Don’t.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Mm. Okay, I’m almost done.”</p>
<p class="p1">“<em>I’m</em> done,” protests Wooyoung, and feels like it comes out <em>agitated,</em> which he’s not, he just wants—“Seriously, you’re gonna fucking make me… <em>San</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I like it when you say my name,” San muses calmly, and then he’s easing his fingers out. Wooyoung feels such an emptiness that his legs sag apart, face flattened into the pillow. He whines, impatient, and San laughs again behind him, pats him on his left cheek. The sound makes Wooyoung smile, squeeze the pillow tighter, but San can’t see that, can he? “Patience,” San tuts. “My fingers are slippery.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung peers over his shoulder, watches San roll the condom on his cock. He stares, lips parted, and when the sound of his own swallow reaches his ears, San snaps him out of his reverie with another laugh. Wooyoung’s eyes narrow into slits, and he turns away, cheeks pink. “Mock me all you want. I’m already ass-up.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m not mocking you,” San insists, and he casts a shadow over Wooyoung and his pillow when he rises up over him, reaches to turn Wooyoung’s chin toward his shoulder again. “I’m not, I’m not.” And while he’s still got fingers on Wooyoung’s face, he gives his cheeks a couple squeezes, fingers drawing so close together that Wooyoung’s lips are squished into a purse. “Pretty,” says San, and Wooyoung wrenches his face away huffily.</p>
<p class="p1">“Just fuck me,” he tells the pillow. “I’m going soft.” It’s a lie.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m getting there,” murmurs San. He presses his lips—unnecessarily—between Wooyoung’s shoulder blades, and then he’s wrapping long fingers around Wooyoung’s hips, hoisting him back up on his knees. Wooyoung almost wishes he could watch San do it—there’s something about the strength in those arms—but he’s supposed to be playing—<em>being</em>—stubborn, not giving San the satisfaction he seeks. San hums, dips a fingertip into Wooyoung’s wet hole, and Wooyoung squeezes shut his eyes, keens quietly. “You look good.” And Wooyoung doesn’t mean to react bodily, but the arch in his back deepens seemingly against his will. There’s a smile in San’s voice as he says, “Tell me if it’s too much.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s breath catches at the hot pressure as San pushes in, hisses out a labored breath somewhere above. He has to remind himself they’re in a shitty school dorm, walls like paper, as his jaw drops in a silent moan, as his brows pinch together. San’s hands grope at his waist, and he’s bottomed out already but totally frozen. Wooyoung nudges backward, gasps when it feels, for just a second, like he’ll split open, and swallows all the saliva in his mouth to rasp out, “Everything okay up there?” And when San hesitates for just a second: “What the fuck are you doing?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Shut up,” San breathes, gives Wooyoung’s waist an admonishing squeeze. “You’re—god, you’re tight.”</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>“Move.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">“Brat.” When Wooyoung twists his neck uncomfortably, San’s already watching him. San licks his lips, smile complacent, but there’s a tremble to it like he’s barely holding himself together. His broad chest shines a bit with sweat, hair hanging lank in his eyes. Wooyoung can’t look away. “Just—I don’t wanna come yet.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung splutters out a disbelieving laugh. <em>“Already?”</em> he chokes. Then he pounds a fist against the mattress. “Yeah, nope—no. You’re not allowed. But if you don’t move your stupid ass, I’ll—”</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck.” San chuckles lowly, giving a shake his head. “The disrespect, Wooyoungie.” His fingers sink into the flesh of Wooyoung’s hip, the heel of his other hand digs into the base of Wooyoung’s spine, and then he’s finally pulling out, fucking back in, lazily as if to test the waters. Wooyoung shudders, bites into the flesh of his cheek as San goes deep, and he’s trying to grasp at his scattered wits to tell San to just go <em>faster</em> when San’s hips snap against him, hard, suddenly relentless. The bed shakes, Wooyoung trembles, panting, grasping at the sheets.</p>
<p class="p1">Any strength in Wooyoung’s upper body melts away, and the sound of skin on skin is just as obscene as San’s muffled grunting. And it’s the fucking middle of the day—a flush creeps up Wooyoung’s neck at the thought of neighbors, anyone passing in the hallway outside. At the thought of Mingi. <em>Ew, no.</em></p>
<p class="p1">San’s hand travels down the arch of his spine until he’s gripping the back of Wooyoung’s neck, only with a gentle pressure. “Good?” breathes San, and then seems to search for other words. “Can I…?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s response is a litany of <em>yeah, yes, yeah,</em> and then San’s pressing him down into the mattress, pitching his weight further forward. Wooyoung lets out a sharp cry at the change in angle, and he feels blissfully trapped, reaches between his legs for his leaking cock.</p>
<p class="p1">He only gets a few strokes in before San’s fingers, tentative at first, wind around his wrist. They draw his hand away, pin it with an ounce of hesitance to Wooyoung’s lower back. His eyes crack open, hazy, bleary, and again, San checks, “Okay?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s eyes are wide, his nod brisk.</p>
<p class="p1">“Mm.” San’s hold tightens, both on Wooyoung’s neck and his wrist. “Can you—come like this?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s toes curl, and he means to reply, but it only comes out a pathetic whimper. Then, “Fuck me harder and you’ll find out.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Jesus fuck.” San laughs, airy and hoarse, but he doesn’t idle. And Wooyoung’s eyes are slipping shut, lower lip aching from the dig of his teeth, when San adjusts <em>somehow</em>, fingers clenching on Wooyoung’s skin hard enough to burn, and fucks into him where he feels it most. “The mouth on you,” San says, and Wooyoung means to laugh but can only moan wantonly.</p>
<p class="p1">His thighs quiver and it all rushes over him so fast, the swooping in the pit of his stomach, the twitch of his cock between his legs, and Wooyoung gasps out an <em>oh god</em> when he spills out over his tummy, over San’s sheets, clenching up tight around San’s cock. And then his knees starts to slip against the sheets, turning to jelly, and San’s thrusts go sloppy.</p>
<p class="p1">“Wooyoungie,” breathes San, distant and absentminded, hands easing up on Wooyoung’s neck and wrist before he releases him completely. Wooyoung makes a soft noise of shock when San pulls out, knows he’s probably pulling the condom off but can’t hear over the buzzing in his head, and from some well deep within him, he finds the strength to roll over, careful not to kick San right off the bed. He has to cringe when he realizes he’s rolling around in his own jizz, but it’s worth it for the deer-in-headlights look that San gives him—one hand on his cock—as Wooyoung settles on his back, stares up at him expectantly.</p>
<p class="p1">“Just c’mere,” huffs Wooyoung, reaching laboriously to tug at San’s free wrist. When he pats his lap, San finally seems to get the message, climbing over Wooyoung’s prone body and settling against the cradle of his hips. And while San’s weirdly busy laying a palm to Wooyoung’s stomach where the jizz is smeared, Wooyoung wraps his fingers around San’s cock. If San thinks he’s doing him a favor, let him—but he’s long and hot between Wooyoung’s fingers. An… objectively nice cock.</p>
<p class="p1">“You’re making that face again,” says San, head tipped lazily to the side as Wooyoung jerks him off, “the one when—you’re concentrated.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s eyes narrow, but he can’t stop the humor that twists into his lips. “Stop saying creepy shit.”</p>
<p class="p1">San barks a laugh that’s half moan. “I just like your face.”</p>
<p class="p1">“My face, huh,” murmurs Wooyoung. His eyes are sleepy and his wrist is aching—it’s the same one San had kept bruisingly pressed to his back—but it’s intoxicating, the way San fucks into his fist, one hand curled over Wooyoung’s shoulder. “Wanna come on it?”</p>
<p class="p1">San’s eyes snap to attention. “What?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Just kidding.” Wooyoung smiles, the picture of innocence. <em>Not now, anyway.</em> He doesn’t tell that to San. Refuses to make assumptions about how life will go on the moment he steps out San’s door.</p>
<p class="p1">San’s countenance dissolves into anguished amusement. “You’re <em>such</em> a—I’m close, fuck.” He lets his head loll between his shoulders, though his gaze is intense, eyes alert through their haziness.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s lips press tightly together. And, after a beat, he purrs sweetly, “Come on, Sannie,” feels indescribable conceit when he presses his thumb into San’s slit, watches San’s eyes pinch shut and his pink lips part around a stuttered breath. He comes over Wooyoung’s stomach and chest—and his <em>chin</em>. Wooyoung squeals instantly, whips a hand up to cover his eyes for protection should <em>more</em> come, and San’s laughing, hoarse and warm and high, leaning into his space to thumb away the come on his jaw.</p>
<p class="p1">“Sorry,” mutters San unashamedly, then collapses into a heap of limbs beside Wooyoung, chest still heaving. The twin bed is cramped but Wooyoung doesn’t give him any more space than he needs, isn’t sure he could, anyhow, with the way his legs feel like they’re filling with sand, weighing heavily into the mattress.</p>
<p class="p1">“Why did I think that was a good idea,” Wooyoung whispers resentfully, staring down at the beads of San’s come on his skin. It doesn’t help that his chest is sweat-slick. He groans, drops his head to the pillow.</p>
<p class="p1">“But it <em>was</em>,” San states. He’s on his side, forehead pressed to Wooyoung’s arm, and—<em>are his eyes closed?</em></p>
<p class="p1"><em>“No,”</em> Wooyoung whines, smacking San on his bare hip. “No, get up. You just came all over me, there’s lube all over my ass. Go wet a washcloth for me. Get baby wipes. <em>Anything</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Tired.” San rubs his nose into Wooyoung’s skin like a cat, proceeds to slink an arm across his waist.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung eyes him threateningly, as if San could possibly feel the heat of his stare. Then he scans his surroundings, cranes his arm out toward the floor as far as he can reach to grasp the nearest item of convenience—San’s striped shirt. “I’ll just use this, then.”</p>
<p class="p1">San cracks an eye open. He must give himself whiplash sitting up as fast as he does. He snatches the shirt from Wooyoung’s fingers protectively, then climbs huffily over Wooyoung’s legs. “This was expensive,” he mutters. And then, from the bathroom, where he’s running the sink, “You couldn’t’ve gotten off your own ass?”</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m your guest,” Wooyoung scoffs. When San emerges with a damp hand towel that he tosses across the room to Wooyoung, he adds, in a lower voice, “And my ass is shot.”</p>
<p class="p1">The characteristic slyness returns to San’s face as he nudges the bathroom door shut with his hip. “Oh, yeah,” he sighs, poses naked in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips to gaze nostalgically at the posters on Mingi’s wall, as if into an imaginary sunset. “Good times.” He nods slowly, thoughtful. “Good ass.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung snorts, gives San the subtlest once-over he can manage as he tosses the used towel into what he assumes is a laundry basket. San’s hopping back onto the bed, slotting himself where he’d lain. Impatiently, he pinches the side of Wooyoung’s ass. “Turn over,” he says.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung eyes him, skeptical. “Are you... trying to spoon me?”</p>
<p class="p1">San smiles, nods pertly.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung shuts his eyes. He lets go of a breath. “I should… probably go.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Just a little nap!” pleads San, and he reaches over Wooyoung’s head to unlatch and crack open the window. Wooyoung knows <em>he</em> doesn’t smell good, so the room possibly can’t, but airing it out isn’t worth the frigid autumn breeze that rushes in. He instinctively scrambles to get under the sheets. “Oh,” San hums. “That worked.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung squints at him over his shoulder. “Wake me up in ten minutes,” he mutters defeatedly, as if he could fight the drooping of his eyelids. San says nothing, just curls around him, firm and warm, skin still tacky from drying sweat.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Hey.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung hums, stretches out a leg, eyes still shut tight. His heel bumps against something, something that curls around the contact, hooks around his ankle.</p>
<p class="p1">“Wooyoung-<em>aaah</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">He peels open an eye. It feels crusty and dry, like he’s been knocked out for hours, and the first thing he’s faced with is a bed—<em>Song Mingi’s</em> bed—across the room, still stripped of its comforter. “What,” whispers Wooyoung, glances toward the window, where the sun is low in the pink sky.</p>
<p class="p1">When he whips around to sit up, San is beside him, shirtless and on his phone, sat against the headboard. “Wanna get dinner with me?” San asks without looking up from his screen. “Getting hungry.”</p>
<p class="p1">“What time is it?” Wooyoung mutters, trying to preemptively quell the panic settling over him. He sweeps the sheets aside to scrounge up his clothes, and as he’s hopping into his boxer briefs, San says, “Five-forty.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Five…” Wooyoung’s eyes widen. He’d headed to San’s dorm at three. <em>Three</em>. “Fuck. <em>Fuck</em>.” He trips over a rogue shoe on his way to his jeans, and somewhere behind him, San chuckles.</p>
<p class="p1">“What? Missing a hot date or something?”</p>
<p class="p1">“No,” Wooyoung snarls. “I have <em>class</em>. I have—I have a discussion at six. Have to turn in a paper. Which, by the way, is at my apartment, with <em>all</em> my books for that class, because I usually go home in between—in between…” He trails off, circling the room in a tizzy, and his sweater might be on backwards but there’s no time to address that because he’ll have to run for his life if he wants to get that paper turned in on the hour.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, shit,” San laughs, and it’s so lighthearted Wooyoung is tempted to pick up the bowling pin on Mingi’s desk—he decides not to question its presence—and repurpose it to play a bit of shot put in San’s room.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah. <em>Oh, shit</em>,” Wooyoung agrees lowly. He grabs his bag and his laptop, hugs them to his chest and flings the door open.</p>
<p class="p1">“Bye!” San sings after him, the echo of it clipped short by the slamming door.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Yunho is home when Wooyoung comes barreling through the door, boots tracking matted, wet leaves all over the entryway. He’s impossible for Wooyoung to avoid—the front door opens directly into the congested, converted living room where their two beds and desks are stuffed, leaving no space for even desk chairs. They simply don’t <em>sit</em> at their desks.</p>
<p class="p1">“Whoa,” says Yunho, sprawled out on his bed. The sunset streams in through the windows, lights half his face a pale orange, the other half cast in a white glow from his laptop. But Wooyoung ignores him determinedly, drops his belongings on his bed and stomps to the desk to root for his essay and books.</p>
<p class="p1">“Your tag’s sticking out,” murmurs Yunho, and then Wooyoung feels a finger at the back of his neck, tucking the tag of his sweater safely under the collar. And then: “Ugh, gross. Did you know you reek?”</p>
<p class="p1">“I ran here.” Wooyoung keeps his eyes down, tosses a few books on his bed, attempts to get his breathing in check. <em>Where’s the goddamn essay—</em></p>
<p class="p1">Yunho’s hovering. “From where?” And, in typical Yunho-fashion, he reaches around Wooyoung to pinch the stapled corner of a packet of papers, pull it out from its spot wedged between two textbooks. He presents Wooyoung’s essay to him. “I thought you had a break in the middle of the day.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I do.” Wooyoung accepts his essay without so much as a grateful smile, tries to not be outright shocked that Mingi hasn’t ratted him out to Yunho. Then he recalls he has more pressing matters to deal with, and hustles over to his bag to inelegantly stuff everything in.</p>
<p class="p1">From the corner of Wooyoung’s eye, he can see Yunho staring at him. “You’re being… <em>so</em> cagey right now,” Yunho says. A beat, and then: “Did you kill someone? Do we need to go into hiding?” Yunho lifts a finger to point it hesitantly at Wooyoung. “Did you get all sweaty dragging their body up a hill? You should know better, Woo. It’ll rain and the corpse will slide <em>right</em> back down.”</p>
<p class="p1">Despite the frazzled jumble of thoughts in Wooyoung’s head at that very moment—among them the knowledge that he’ll have to spend the next hour in class, wedged into a desk between relative strangers, not having checked a mirror in hours and smelling like sex and Choi San—he cracks a smile as he slings his bag over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he confirms, nodding in Yunho’s direction and heading for the door. “We’re skipping town. Pack your shit. Don’t open the door for anyone unless you hear our secret knock, then you’ll know it’s me.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung closes the door on Yunho crying out, “But we don’t have a secret knock!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>gotta go - chung ha</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. labyrinth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Strawberry Mylk plays at Star 1117.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">It’s a typical Friday night in every way but that, for once, the movie playing isn’t one that Wooyoung has to watch for class. He’s on his stomach on Yunho’s bed, legs swinging absently behind him—mostly just so, when the plot gets slow, he can peek over his shoulder and attempt to slip his bare toes under Yunho’s nose. Yunho’s there beside him, acting like he’s getting readings done, but every time Wooyoung checks, his book is laying neglected in his lap whilst his eyes fixate on Wooyoung’s laptop screen. Every so often, when the movie soundtrack quiets, the sounds of their housemate Hyejin chattering animatedly on the phone in her room will drift through her door to the shoddy sliding screens separating Wooyoung and Yunho from the rest of the apartment. Wooyoung’s zoning out on said screen, chin in his hands, and Hyejin’s on a <em>fuck all men</em> sort of rant when Yunho grabs him by the ankle, squeezes.</p>
<p class="p1">“You remember Kim Hongjoong?” asks Yunho, eyes on his phone.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s been a few weeks since Wooyoung was last at Mingi and San’s. Yunho is still in the dark about Wooyoung <em>visiting</em> more recently than when he’d first met Kim Hongjoong, but once the initial panic from stumbling into class late due to a hookup, of all things, had subsided, Wooyoung had never found an appropriate time to bring it up, much less a desire to. And anyhow, it’s only been radio silence from San since then. Still, Wooyoung would be hard-pressed to forget anything at all about that first night, even if he’d rather like to. “Mhm. Why?”</p>
<p class="p1">“He just texted me,” hums Yunho, frown thoughtful.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, aren’t you just the <em>coolest</em>—”</p>
<p class="p1">“Shut up,” Yunho rebuffs quickly. “There’s some live music night at a club downtown. He’s asking if we wanna go.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung wrinkles his nose. <em>“We?”</em> he questions, already dreading the thought of putting on pants that aren’t loose and lined with fleece.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yep. He specifically said <em>you and Wooyoung-ssi, </em>so don’t try to start shit.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung waits a second. Then, “That’s weird.”</p>
<p class="p1">Yunho snorts, and he’s climbing off the bed already, <em>no, god</em>—“Being nice isn’t <em>weird</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">“In most cases, it is,” argues Wooyoung, and he sits up, visibly appalled as Yunho starts to root around for a shirt that isn’t covered in imagery of ballet-dancing teddy bears. “Is it far?”</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s at Star 1117.” Wooyoung scowls at that, because it’s either a fifteen-minute walk or a cheap Uber, and on top of that, there’s no cover to get in, so he can use neither as an excuse.</p>
<p class="p1">“Are you… going?” Wooyoung shifts to sit cross-legged.</p>
<p class="p1">Yunho turns around, halfway into a clean t-shirt, and raises his eyebrows. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung sighs, long-suffering, and drags himself off the bed. “It’s just… <em>random</em>. Like, I forgot he existed, and now he wants to hang out with us?” He traipses up beside Yunho, nudges him out of the way so he can root around for pants. “I thought you knew him as little as I do.”</p>
<p class="p1">“You’re being close-minded,” mutters Yunho as he smacks him on the ass, then picks over toward the mirror on his desk. “And close-hearted. Expand your social horizons, my dear. And he said his boyfriend plays in the band that’s performing! That’s kinda sick, right?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung stares at the pleather pants in his hands, rusty cogs turning in his head. <em>Ah</em>. “Mingi asked him to ask you,” he states suddenly, drawing an invisible diagram in the air with his fingertip. “And told him to <em>also</em> extend the invitation to <em>me</em> so it wouldn’t be even <em>weirder</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">For a moment, Yunho says nothing. Then, to the mirror, “What, you read minds now?” but Wooyoung can see a faint smile in his reflection.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung grins. “Just an educated guess.” He glances at the windows, where the curtains are still thrown open to the night, then decides he doesn’t care enough to shut them as he strips out of his sweats. “Thanks to you, my precious study subject, for <em>years</em> now I’ve had the pleasure of observing the socialization patterns of dorks.”</p>
<p class="p1">Through the mirror, Yunho gives him a blank stare. “That was lame.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Really? ‘Cos I’m laughing.”</p>
<p class="p1">Then Yunho turns, and Wooyoung’s in just his boxers, fighting to get into the pleather pants. He eyes the windows. “You’re gonna give poor Mrs. Kim across the street a coronary.”</p>
<p class="p1">With only his feet through the pant legs, Wooyoung shuffles to the window, plasters himself to the glass as sexily as one with pleather-pant-ankle-shackles could possibly manage. “Eat your heart out, Mrs. Kim,” he simpers.</p>
<p class="p1">Behind him, Yunho sighs. “We need to leave before the police get here.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Star 1117 is cozy, perhaps a bit ramshackle and grimy, but so densely packed that Wooyoung is shocked Kim Hongjoong finds them so fast. He materializes from the crowd while Yunho and Wooyoung are leant over the bar—Wooyoung mid-pout because apparently they don’t fucking serve hard alcohol, so he’s had to settle for cheap red wine—and hooks a hand on both their shoulders, huddling close, eyes bright with mirth and silver glitter and ears adorned with jewels from tip to lobe.</p>
<p class="p1">“You’re easy to find.” Hongjoong smiles. Wooyoung sips bitter wine from a plastic cup. He’s never felt classier. “Yunho’s hair is like a lighthouse above a sea of people.” And then, as if on some shared, short-person instinct, both Wooyoung and Hongjoong peer at Yunho with chins tilted upward. Yunho’s smile is sheepish.</p>
<p class="p1">“You’d be surprised how often I use that method of Yunho-location,” Wooyoung informs Hongjoong, and why he’s suddenly talking, he can’t be sure. “But one time it failed me, ‘cos we were at a festival and it was fucking <em>swarming</em> with people and I was so scared I’d lost him or he’d somehow been trampled or died in the mosh pit but it turned out he was just kneeling to pet someone’s dog.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hongjoong seems to laugh but the sound gets lost in the clamor of the club, and Yunho picks at the label on his beer and says, “I just think it’s polite to be at eye-level when you’re scratching someone’s belly.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung nearly snorts wine out his nose, and it’s a less-than-pleasant feeling, the acidity burning between his eyes as Hongjoong nods in a vague direction and takes Wooyoung gently by the hand. “We’re at a table near the stage,” he calls over his shoulder, and Wooyoung makes sure Yunho’s got a grip on hip somewhere—currently a belt loop—before he delves into the throng behind Hongjoong.</p>
<p class="p1">He doesn’t mean to trip over his legs—ultimately, he doesn’t fall to the floor—and he’s a hair’s breadth from spilling wine all over the back of Hongjoong’s white drapey shirt—ultimately, he doesn’t—but Wooyoung still can’t say for sure that luck is on his side when he spots the table Hongjoong’s gunning for.</p>
<p class="p1">Choi San has his arms thrown around Yeosang’s shoulders. His hair is swept back from his forehead so Wooyoung can see the way his eyebrows are leaping up his forehead in a lively exchange with Mingi and a girl Wooyoung thinks might have been there that first night. The cramped table is cluttered with empty beer bottles and plastic cups, and Wooyoung questions its structural integrity when Mingi latches onto its edge in excitement and it wobbles at every visible hinge.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung did not think this through.</p>
<p class="p1">“I found them,” Hongjoong announces. He takes Wooyoung’s arm with both hands, leads him to an empty spot at the table, and Yunho lurches with him to fill the space adjacent. Mingi lights up, barks, “Hey, man!” and Wooyoung watches them <em>hug it out</em> as Hongjoong rattles off mechanically, “Mingi, San, Yeosang, Yeji,” then nods toward the recent arrivals, “Yunho, Wooyoung. I’m sure you remember.” Yeji wriggles her fingers in a wave, and Yeosang is very obviously not concealing his amusement; if Wooyoung could put words to his countenance, they’d be <em>so we meet again</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">Hongjoong sets his elbows on the table at Wooyoung’s right, and he’s speaking just to Wooyoung—Yunho is otherwise occupied—as he says, “It’s just a few minutes before they come on,” and waves toward the stage.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung nods, gets in a few dazed blinks. Over Hongjoong’s shoulder, on a stage less than a foot off the floor, a lonely soul with <em>STAFF</em> printed in white across his shoulders meanders about the stage, murmuring into microphones, tapping the cymbals on the drum set. The bass drum head is plastered with the text <em>Strawberry Mylk</em> in a swirling, pink font, and Wooyoung means to ask—well, <em>something</em>, what kind of music they play, what it is that Hongjoong’s boyfriend does, but it’s unreasonably difficult when Wooyoung realizes he’s being watched across the table. He’s somehow amassed human safety buffers on both sides—Mingi and Yunho on his left, Hongjoong, Yeji, and Yeosang on his right—but that leaves San opposite him, smiling under the dim lights, the mouth of his beer bottle pressed to his lower lip. He’s in a simple black t-shirt, but it scoops low over his collarbones and chest, and when Wooyoung inadvertently catches onto his gaze, he thinks all his words must’ve died in his throat. But then Hongjoong’s shouting, “What?” and curling his fingers again over Wooyoung’s hand on the table, so he must’ve said <em>something</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, I—” Wooyoung’s eyes flit away from San. “I—so that’s your, um… your boyfriend’s band, right?”</p>
<p class="p1">Hongjoong nods quickly, jovially. “Yeah! Yeah. Seonghwa plays bass. I’ll introduce you after.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Cool,” says Wooyoung. He takes a deep gulp from his cup, lets his eyes zone out on an indiscriminate spot on the stage.</p>
<p class="p1">“Ah,” Hongjoong says suddenly, and touches Wooyoung’s shoulder. “Words of wisdom: don’t make any jokes about their band name. It’s a touchy subject.” His eyes sparkle under the lights strung from the ceiling, and he’s doing that thing again, the thing where he stares right into Wooyoung’s soul through his eyes. His smile turns mischievous. “Actually, I take it back. You should shit on their name. It’s really funny when Seonghwa gets pissed off about <em>this</em> specifically.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung snorts. “Good first impression. Bet he’ll love me forever.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hongjoong shrugs, squeezes Wooyoung’s shoulder. “He’ll know I put you up to it.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s cup is empty by the time Strawberry Mylk ascends the stage to patchy but enthusiastic applause, particularly from Wooyoung’s table. San sticks his fingers in his mouth, whistles shrilly, Mingi whoops through a hand megaphone and ropes in Yunho to join him, both so loud and so <em>close</em> that Wooyoung feels like he’ll bust an eardrum. The band’s baby-faced frontman makes a comically humble <em>simmer down</em> hand motion, waving off the applause as he swings himself around the mic stand. The girls on drums and electric guitar hop up—one shoots finger guns Yeji’s way—as does Park Seonghwa (Wooyoung’s cued in by the appropriately-timed bellows of <em>fuck yeah, Park Seonghwa!</em> that issue from Mingi and San). Seonghwa smiles very sweetly, even a bit gawkily, as he waves at Hongjoong from a grand total of three feet away, settles his guitar strap across his shoulders.</p>
<p class="p1">“He’s such a goof,” Hongjoong mutters out the corner of his mouth, and when Wooyoung laughs, Seonghwa mouths <em>what?</em> as he looks between them, eyes wide and enrapt. But Hongjoong only shakes his head, grinningly calls out, “I said I love you!”</p>
<p class="p1">“Good evening, beautiful people of Star 1117. Strawberry Mylk at your service,” the frontman’s voice booms over the speakers. He twists the cord of the mic around his fingers, smiles demurely through a bow, and the girl on guitar to his right lifts a jaded eyebrow.</p>
<p class="p1">“Get on with it,” she mutters into her own mic, and the frontman acts scandalized, a hand laid delicately over his heart.</p>
<p class="p1">Their banter subsides, though, and the opening song is a glamorous, electric pop ballad with one of those overtly long names—probably in all lowercase, Wooyoung imagines. And it turns out, during the chorus, that the frontman is a <em>belter</em>, stunning both Wooyoung and Yunho into slack-jawed surprise.</p>
<p class="p1">“Phantom of the Opera much?” chokes Wooyoung, and Yunho’s responding nod is rapid. Hongjoong gives them a crinkly-nosed smile over his shoulder.</p>
<p class="p1">Perhaps even more notable is when all traces of Seonghwa’s gawkiness vanish the moment the lights dim and the drummer sets the rhythm. There’s a certain curl to his lip, a wicked set to his eyes, a sense of control to his stance, a deftness to his fingers.</p>
<p class="p1">When the first song ends, Mingi and Yunho take off toward the bar for another round of drinks. Ominously, Hongjoong murmurs, “Open season,” into his cup, eyes flashing at Wooyoung, but Wooyoung can only read lips so fast that the warning goes right over his head.</p>
<p class="p1">“The next song’s good for dancing.” San sets an elbow on the sticky table beside Wooyoung, the front of his body aligned with Wooyoung’s side, perhaps an inch between them.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung takes a breath, shifts his weight on his feet. San puts him on edge. But Wooyoung goes for aloof, biting the tip of his tongue. His eyes make an arc from San’s wiry forearm to the stage, where the frontman’s still getting set up behind a keyboard, adjusting the height of his mic. “And how would you know?”</p>
<p class="p1">“I know the set list,” says San, smugness etched into the corners of his smile.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung looks him in the eye finally. The stage lights hit the planes of his face in all the right places, and his lips are pink and bitten. “Okay, so—you’re informing me, right? That the next song’s good to dance to?” He blinks. “Not asking me to dance, right? Good. Because… there definitely wasn’t a question in there.”</p>
<p class="p1">San snorts, and his eyes flit toward the ceiling in a halfhearted roll. And then he’s sinking to a one-legged kneel, palms pressed together in prayer where they hover near Wooyoung’s hip. “Wooyoungie,” San shouts at the floor, tone flat, “may I have this dance?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung only hides his face to piss San off, so he doesn’t <em>mean</em> to make eye contact with Hongjoong. Hongjoong, however, gives him a smirk, then turns his back innocently, like there’s something very interesting about Seonghwa tuning his bass. Which, to be fair, there is.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung sighs, a laugh caught in his throat. “Get up,” he mutters, wrapping fingers around San’s wrist to haul him to his feet. He doesn’t need the help, though—San bounces up, uses Wooyoung’s hold on his arm to drag him into the crowd in front of the stage.</p>
<p class="p1">San weaves his way through until they’re in the thick of it, near the stage’s edge. There’s something electrifying about the guitar riff that starts up, bodies hopping and swaying at all sides, and Wooyoung peers toward the stage to watch the frontman bop his head side to side behind the keyboard.</p>
<p class="p1">San nudges him in front, and Wooyoung goes, humming faintly to the tune of the chorus. San stands behind him, hands on Wooyoung’s hips, but Wooyoung decidedly pays them no mind.</p>
<p class="p1">“Where’ve you been?” San asks right into his ear, distinct despite the blaring of the speakers.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung chuckles. He turns his head so that, at the very least, San can read his lips. “What do you mean?”</p>
<p class="p1">San shrugs, fingers drumming Wooyoung’s hipbones. Wooyoung has to turn his head away, because San’s ducking close again to speak into his ear. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Considering we met for the first time, like, a month ago, that doesn’t surprise me.”</p>
<p class="p1">“What?” calls San, blinking quickly, still focused on Wooyoung’s mouth. So Wooyoung rolls his eyes, makes to lean toward San’s ear, but then he just laughs, nose brushing San’s cheek when the other all-too enthusiastically offers his ear.</p>
<p class="p1">“Just—never mind.” Wooyoung shakes his head, bites back a grin.</p>
<p class="p1">He sees, not hears, San say, “Okay,” and smile right back. Wooyoung looks to the stage, where the drummer’s going ham on her solo, and as the crowd jumps around them, Wooyoung pitches his weight backward. Just in the slightest.</p>
<p class="p1">San steadies him, palms warm and firm on his waist, like he’d been expecting Wooyoung to fall backward. But he didn’t, and still they stay.</p>
<p class="p1">Several Strawberry Mylk songs pass in a blur. Wooyoung doesn’t really dance, and neither does San, though there comes a point when the frontman comes to the very edge of the stage for a slower ballad that San seems to know every word to. Hugging Wooyoung to his front with one arm, he cranes out his other hand for that of the frontman, who twines their fingers together in the air, and together they perform a mutual serenade for a whole chorus and a half. Wooyoung looks on, bewildered and bizarrely charmed, with his palms covering the back of San’s hand. When the frontman finally lets San’s fingers go so he can return to the keyboard, he blows him a regretful kiss, and San laughs, nudges his nose to Wooyoung’s temple as he says, “He knows that one’s my favorite.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung hums considerately. “You were good,” he says, and he’s positive it’s too low for San to hear, but somehow he must manage it, because he beams rather cutely, slips careless fingertips under the hem of Wooyoung’s shirt to brush his bare stomach. For Wooyoung, it’s a confusing sensory overload, and he looks away, lip caught under his teeth.</p>
<p class="p1">Before the purported final song, the frontman wanders about the stage, one hand on his hip, plugging Strawberry Mylk’s latest EP on Spotify. “We have… what is it, Byul? Ten thousand streams across all our songs?” to which the drummer answers dryly, “Only eight.”</p>
<p class="p1">San’s hand is fully under Wooyoung’s shirt by now. Nothing to be done about it. It tickles a bit, the way he fingers Wooyoung’s belly button every now and again, forcing him to stifle his laughs into the back of his hand. “You know,” says San, right up against his ear again, “I asked you to dance, and I don’t think we danced at all.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung pretends to watch the frontman tease Seonghwa about this or that. He can’t be sure, he’d missed the punchline. “And whose fault is that?”</p>
<p class="p1">San sighs, thumb sweeping like a little windshield wiper on Wooyoung’s abdomen. “Touché.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung smiles to himself. “We can dance,” he ends up saying, but a rolling, brawny riff and thumping bass drum drown out his words.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s a sexy beat, and the growling of the guitars makes Wooyoung’s head feel warm, the drumbeat resounding in his chest. Nodding along absentmindedly, his fingertips graze between San’s knuckles. San’s close enough that he doesn’t have to put much effort into rolling back against him. Still, his hand finds the side of San’s thigh, feeling the rough fabric of his jeans.</p>
<p class="p1">San lets out a breath, hot and clipped, against the back of Wooyoung’s ear. And the hand on his stomach presses down harder into his soft skin, draws Wooyoung in to meld to San’s front.</p>
<p class="p1">“That’s not dancing,” he hears San say, and he thinks it must be the result of some scientific phenomena that he’s attuned to a San-specific frequency even when the frontman’s hitting his falsetto.</p>
<p class="p1">“No?” Wooyoung peers backward halfway, lips in a mocking pout.</p>
<p class="p1">San’s smile is wily. “No.” His head cocks. “That’s rubbing your ass against my dick.”</p>
<p class="p1">For a moment, Wooyoung can only blink, eyelids surprisingly heavy. “Oh.” Then he runs his hand across San’s thigh until he hits his crotch, feels the heat of him there, and gives his package a gentle pat. “Sorry.” He retracts his hand, turns to the stage with a business-like diligence, grinning for nobody but the band to see when San groans and plasters his forehead to the back of Wooyoung’s neck. He squeezes the soft bits on the sides of Wooyoung’s waist, and the last song ends with a dramatic vocal flourish that Wooyoung can only devote maybe ten percent of his attention span to. He claps politely, though, when everyone else cheers, and his shoulders ticklishly jerk up toward his ears when San bites his neck right below his hairline and says, “Let’s go back to the table,” with a gentle smack to the side of Wooyoung’s ass.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung wants to wipe off the dopey, suggestive look that appears on Yunho’s face when he and San return to the table. And yes, San’s arm is around his waist, and it stays there as they fit themselves between Mingi and Hongjoong, but Wooyoung’s decided that, for the moment, he likes it more than he hates Yunho’s transparency.</p>
<p class="p1">The band files off the stage and everyone offers myriad congratulations—San remarks, “Seonghwa-hyung, your pants looked especially tight today!”—and, for Yunho and Wooyoung’s sakes, Hongjoong points out Seonghwa, Byulyi, Lisa, and Jongho, the frontman with the babyface.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung tries to keep up with the flowing conversation, laments with Jongho that they can’t all do shots because of the club’s restrictive license, but mostly he just stares at the cluster of bottles on the table, feeling… unspeakably horny. San’s hand fidgets at his waist, as if he needs to gesture with <em>that</em> hand, too, whenever he opens his mouth to say something. Wooyoung doesn’t dare stare at San. Whatever game they’re playing, he doesn’t want to be the weak one. Doesn’t want to give San any openings to knock him down a peg or two. So, on impulse, when Yeosang slips away to go to the bathroom, Wooyoung seizes the opportunity presented by the empty spot at the other side of the table and winds his way out of San’s grip.</p>
<p class="p1">Seonghwa and Hongjoong are in their own little bubble, a bit starry-eyed and sickeningly cute, and Wooyoung’s scarcely even tipsy, zero excuses for self-insertion as he squishes himself beside Seonghwa. Hongjoong, though, lights up when he notices Wooyoung over Seonghwa’s shoulder.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung gives Seonghwa his best disarming smile. “It’s cute.”</p>
<p class="p1">Seonghwa blinks, probably at the lack of introduction.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung cranes out his neck with a look that screams <em>obviously</em>: “Your <em>band name</em>. Really cute. But I just think… Have you ever thought about getting a visual director?” He wrinkles his nose in thought, gestures to Seonghwa’s getup; his shirt is a shiny black fabric, a bit translucent, buttoned halfway down his chest, and his jeans are skin-tight. “You’ve kinda got the wrong concept going on. I was in Daiso the other day and I saw these, like—you know leg warmers? But—but they were for your arms, so <em>arm</em> warmers, and they had ruffles and cute cats and strawberries on them. It was twenty bucks for a twelve-pack. I think your band should invest.”</p>
<p class="p1">Seonghwa seems to size him up. Then he looks accusingly at Hongjoong, who’d be the picture of wide-eyed innocence if his lips weren’t twitching so. Wooyoung helplessly points and laughs, and when Hongjoong’s dam breaks, he gathers Seonghwa into his arms, pets up the back of his hair with a sunny smile. “He didn’t mean it, baby.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung feels like he and Hongjoong have been tearing into Seonghwa for hours—at the moment, Hongjoong’s enlightening him on Seonghwa’s short-lived Soundcloud rap career, the incriminating evidence of which is still searchable if one simply knows how to spell <em>Hwahwa Seongz</em>—when he feels a hand brush his lower back and turns toward it, nearly ramming skulls with San. They both bounce back in time, but not far enough that San’s hand lets him escape.</p>
<p class="p1">“Are you hiding from me?” San asks, and Wooyoung’s eyes widen involuntarily. He realizes, then, why he doesn’t often hold eye contact with San, as San’s ensuing eyebrow raise makes something jerk in his gut, like he’s somehow been caught in a lie.</p>
<p class="p1">And it’s not that <em>serious</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">“No,” Wooyoung breathes, then clears his throat. Compels his voice to muster up some integrity. “No? No.” He angles toward the table, flaps a hand at the air above it. “Last I noticed, you were, like, three feet away.”</p>
<p class="p1">San says nothing. His fingers twist into the hem of Wooyoung’s shirt right above his ass, then free it, palm pressing again to the small of Wooyoung’s back. Leaning closer into his space, San asks, “Are you into me?”</p>
<p class="p1">And the scariest part, Wooyoung thinks, is how his eyes are so earnest.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung blinks, lips parted. “I—in what way?”</p>
<p class="p1">San shrugs, lips pursed in such a way that the sparkling ceiling lights catch on the wet inner of his lower lip. “Like, if I tried to kiss you, you’d be into it?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung hasn’t touched a drink since he first left the table to dance with San, yet he feels unreasonably drunk with the muzz that fills his head. He clears his throat, gives a shrug of his own, leans into the table and feigns interest in Jongho a few feet away trying to put the moves on Yeji, Byulyi unimpressed with his efforts. “Yeah.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Hm?” San steps closer until he’s up against the table, too.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah, I said yeah.” Wooyoung’s eyes flash to San, and he snorts out a quiet laugh, attempts to straighten out his posture so he and San are closer to eye-level. “Why are—why’re you talking like—that?” The question hardly makes sense in the context, but he makes no move to correct it.</p>
<p class="p1">San smiles faintly, pets up Wooyoung’s spine, sending warm shivers across his back. Then his hand falls away, leaving Wooyoung hollow and cold. San shrugs, just one shoulder this time, scratches his jaw as he says, “Just wish we could be alone.” Then he leans into the table, eyes scanning the buzzing crowd. “But they kick people out for holding up the bathroom line to fuck.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s still processing—cheeks going blotchy and red—when Mingi emerges from the crowd, arm around Yunho’s waist. “Jung,” Mingi hollers, and it’s like someone takes a hammer to the glass case around Wooyoung’s brain.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>Jung</em>. That’s him. “What?” He looks at Mingi, but his fingers fall to blindly grab San’s wrist, thumb digging into his pulse.</p>
<p class="p1">“Jeong?” Yunho gasps, jabs a finger into his own chest.</p>
<p class="p1">“I think,” Mingi readjusts Yunho’s arm across his shoulders, grunts when Yunho’s knees start to buckle, “this one needs to go home.” And, like he <em>wants</em> to validate Mingi’s concern, Yunho grins lazily at them all, opens his mouth to say something that sounds at first like a coherent thought but trails off into nonsensical blabbering.</p>
<p class="p1">San laughs, gives him a round of applause. “You tell ‘em, Yunho-yah!”</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck’s sake,” mutters Wooyoung, goggling at Yunho and Mingi both. “How the hell’d he get white girl wasted?” On <em>beer?</em> His eye twitches, jaw ajar. Yunho is… <em>big</em>. “How did you <em>let</em> him?”</p>
<p class="p1">Mingi, at least, has the decency to look sheepish. “Uh—”</p>
<p class="p1">“Okay,” Wooyoung interrupts, claps his hands together decisively. “Let’s go.” Seonghwa and Hongjoong are nowhere in sight, and Wooyoung weirdly aches to wish them goodbye, but he shakes the feeling off and points his finger at the door, nodding at Mingi. “Get him outside.”</p>
<p class="p1">The cold night air washes over Wooyoung, but he’s too focused on the notification on his phone that their driver’s on her way to mind the shivering. Mingi’s near the brick wall of the club, Yunho blathering noisily under his arm and causing heads to turn, and Wooyoung marches over to clamp his hand over Yunho’s mouth. “It’s quiet time,” he asserts, and Mingi laughs when Yunho’s eyes go wide and obedient. Wooyoung sighs, feels a tug of a smile at his lips as he gives Yunho’s cheek an affectionate pat. Then he clears his throat, nods at Mingi. “Uber should be here in two minutes, then you can leave him to me.”</p>
<p class="p1">Mingi snorts outrageously. “Are you joking?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung doesn’t remember telling any jokes. “What?”</p>
<p class="p1">“You’re small,” states Mingi, chuckling. He claps Yunho’s wrist where it dangles over his shoulder. “And he’s <em>heavy</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m aware,” Wooyoung says defensively, though in his mind, he’s trying to calculate the odds of him safely getting Yunho up two flights of stairs once the Uber dumps them outside their apartment.</p>
<p class="p1">“He’s not that small.” San leans an elbow on Wooyoung’s shoulder—<em>when did he get out here?</em>—and as Wooyoung stares at his profile, skin still glistening from the residual sweat of the indoors, Mingi pins them with a flat look.</p>
<p class="p1">“You’re both small.” He jerks his chin toward the curb, then, fingers wrapping over Yunho’s hand. “White Prius?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung flinches to check his phone. “Yeah.” On his word, Mingi wrestles Yunho to the car. Yunho won’t quit nuzzling his forehead into Mingi’s neck, and once he’s sat in the backseat, he whines in protest until Mingi clambers in beside him.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung stands at the opposite side of the car, door hanging open, as he watches San determinedly assume the shotgun seat. <em>Why—?</em> “But I only ordered it for two people!” he protests when the Uber driver peers back at him from her seat and says, “Just get in, sweetie.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung complies quickly, and she pulls away from the curb the second his ass hits the seat.</p>
<p class="p1">“Thank you for your kindness. You will be tipped handsomely,” says San with a charming smile and an elbow on the center console, and Wooyoung rubs his eyes, thinks San making promises on Wooyoung’s bank account is a bit ridiculous. Beside him, Yunho points out the window, slurs something sing-songy like “Bye-bye!” as the neon sign for Star 1117 whizzes past.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">It’s once all four of them are stepping on one another’s toes in the converted living room, Yunho seated on his bed, Mingi urging Yunho to sip on a glass of water while Wooyoung kneels to untie his shoes, that Wooyoung peers up at Mingi and says, a bit awkwardly, “Thanks.”</p>
<p class="p1">Mingi glances at him, taken aback, but only for a moment. He chuckles. “Yeah, no sweat. It was… kind of my fault. I feel like an enabler.” He draws the glass away from Yunho’s lips when he bats Mingi off and yawns. He’s officially reached the exhaustion stage of <em>really fucked up</em>, vocabulary reduced from gibberish to caveman-like grunts and groans. “It’s—it’s the puppy—”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung laughs sharply. “Puppy eyes, I know.” He stuffs Yunho’s sneakers under his bed, stands up. When he turns, Mingi and San are side-by-side; Mingi clutching the water glass with both hands, eyes full of concern for Yunho, and San with his hands on his hips, unreadable gaze on Wooyoung. “So—”</p>
<p class="p1">“San-ah, we should get going,” says Mingi, and when he takes a step toward the door, he stumbles with an artlessness that can’t be fully attributed to clumsiness. San’s there to steady him, though, and he takes the glass from Mingi, half of the contents of which have sloshed to the floor.</p>
<p class="p1">“I think you need this, too,” San says sagely, and Mingi rolls his eyes but obliges anyway when San feeds him a gulp.</p>
<p class="p1">“I was keeping up with him ’til the end,” says Mingi as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s nodding at Yunho, who’s now passed out on his side with his mouth hanging open and legs off the bed, hugging to his chest the shirt he’d discarded earlier that night.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung lets out something of a baffled snort, catching himself against the wall as he sways with his own laughter. “Wait, how did you fucking carry him up the stairs if you’re that fucked up? He’s gotta weigh as much as you!”</p>
<p class="p1">Mingi thinks a moment. San drains the rest of the water himself. “Sheer power of will,” Mingi decides solemnly.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung smiles, scratches the back of his neck. “You guys should stay.” He lifts a hand in the direction of Yunho’s bed, lets it smack against his thigh as it comes down. “We have room. There’s a couch out there, too, if you want. It’s kind of small, but…”</p>
<p class="p1">San looks him up and down, shrugs, then frowns in thought at Mingi. “Queen beds,” he says, like it’s a selling point. Yunho and Wooyoung’s queen beds—which they’d inherited from the previous tenants—are precisely the reason there’s so little floorspace left to stand in, the reason why Wooyoung’s just a tad too close to San as he watches him mull over the offer.</p>
<p class="p1">Mingi’s eyes narrow on San, but momentarily, he nods his thanks at Wooyoung and shoves the sliding door to the living room open. “I’ll take the couch,” he announces, plopping down heavily, and then: “Oh, god, sorry!”</p>
<p class="p1">Hyejin is halfway out of the bathroom, just beyond the cramped dining-living room where said couch is. She’s wearing silken pajamas, a thick, green clay face mask smeared over her skin, and she’s staring at Mingi with accusing eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Jung Wooyoung!” she calls out—it echoes through the apartment, probably makes it to their neighbors on the other side of the wall—without even a glance in his direction, then storms to her room where she slams the door shut.</p>
<p class="p1">Mingi’s frozen on the couch, hands clenched over his knees. Then he shakes his head, letting out an indignant breath. “All I did was—”</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s okay, she’s like that.” Wooyoung, resigned, runs his fingers through his hair. “She won’t eat you. You’ll be fine.”</p>
<p class="p1">San’s shoulder brushes his own. “Have guests over often?” His tone is wry.</p>
<p class="p1">“Something like that.” Wooyoung looks sideways at San. “Yunho’s dance friends go hard.”</p>
<p class="p1">San’s smile grows with interest. “Yunho dances?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung gears up to brag about his best friend, but <em>Mingi</em> cuts in first. “I’ve told you like a <em>million</em> times, dude, he’s on a dance team <em>and</em> he teaches,” Mingi snaps, “He runs the class for the team and—okay, I’ve <em>definitely</em> mentioned this before—also teaches classes for little kids at a studio downtown.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Okay, okay, capisce,” San mutters, holds his hands up in surrender. He looks at Wooyoung from the corner of his eye. “Yunhopedia much?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung chuckles and actively pretends, for a blushing Mingi’s sake, that he didn’t find that sweet at all. “You can use one of Yunho’s extra pillows,” he tells Mingi, then shuffles past them both to the bathroom, flicks the lights on and shuts the door behind him.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung’s not sure how many seconds he’s spent squinting at his reflection in the mirror cabinet, slightly miffed that his eyeliner’s been smudged for who knows how long and <em>no one</em> told him—then again, Yunho’d been unexpectedly trashed, and Wooyoung wasn’t quite close enough with anyone else—when the door creaks open abruptly and he shouts on instinct.</p>
<p class="p1">It eases shut again, just enough that whosever fingers are curled around it aren’t crushed in the doorframe. “What, are you taking a shit?” San asks from its other side, and Wooyoung feels himself relax. He rolls his eyes, grabs onto the doorknob so he can lug it open, bringing San’s arm with it.</p>
<p class="p1">“No,” Wooyoung says pointedly. Seemingly satisfied, San steps in, shuts the door behind him.</p>
<p class="p1">First, he scans the sink, gives his hands an absentminded wash, then proceeds to root through the mirror cabinet above, throwing cotton rounds onto the counter, a bottle of makeup remover that luckily isn’t Hyejin’s. She’d throttle him.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung, that is. She’d throttle Wooyoung. It’s always somehow his fault.</p>
<p class="p1">“Close your eyes,” San instructs, and then he takes Wooyoung by the chin. Wooyoung’s first instinct is to fight him off, gives San a hearty smack to the chest, but he budges not. Wooyoung surrenders through a sigh, lets his posture slump and his chin rest against San’s fingers. The cotton pad is cold against Wooyoung’s eyelid but San is gentle, and when Wooyoung’s hands feel awkward hanging at his sides, he lets them rest on San’s hips.</p>
<p class="p1">“Do you dance, too?” San asks lightly.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung hums out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Kind of.”</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>“Kind of.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">“Let me finish.” He pinches San’s hip. “I’m a dance minor, but… I finished it last year. Sometimes I take Yunho’s classes, when they’re open for everyone, but, like. Busy, and shit.” San’s finished both eyes, so he opens them, watches San fold up the cotton pad and toss it. “Why?”</p>
<p class="p1">San smiles, shrugs one of his shoulders as he props his hip against the counter, nudges the makeup remover toward Wooyoung as a silent command. “Me too,” he says. “Dance minor, I mean. But I only decided I wanted to do it last year, so.” He shrugs again, watches Wooyoung wet the cotton pad with a clinical carefulness. “We never crossed paths.”</p>
<p class="p1">“You’re lying,” mutters Wooyoung, and his mouth betrays a smile as he steps up to San.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m not.” San grins back, eyes closed. Wooyoung pulls gently at his eyelid with his thumb, wipes at the smudge of black by his eyelashes.</p>
<p class="p1">“Hm.” Wooyoung pouts in thought. San’s lower lip looks soft. Very pink. “You missed out. My Russian jump is legendary.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I believe it.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung snorts, looks down at his feet. He pokes San’s socked big toe with his own.</p>
<p class="p1">“I have two eyes,” San says, and Wooyoung scoffs, head whipping back up. He’s smiling with lips pressed tightly together, eyes still shut.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m getting there.” He flicks the tip of San’s nose, wets a second cotton pad. He ends up going over San’s eyebrows, too, when he spots the pigment up close, smiles unwittingly when San hugs him around the waist.</p>
<p class="p1">He’s craning out his arm to throw out the cotton pads when San first kisses him on the corner of his mouth.</p>
<p class="p1">And… Wooyoung isn’t displeased about it at all. He feels a bit sleepy, and San’s arms feel warm and secure, so Wooyoung moves willingly into him, hands closing over San’s biceps as he breathes softly out his nose.</p>
<p class="p1">The whole building lays under a blanket of silence—at this time of night, their neighbors are either still out or dead asleep—so Wooyoung’s ears catch every soft, wet noise between them as San tips close to lick and suckle over his bottom lip. Fingers sinking into San’s biceps, Wooyoung takes his tongue into his mouth, hums low in his throat and rises onto his tiptoes to get an upper hand over San. San grips his waist steadily, though, keeps him grounded, and Wooyoung winds his fingers into the back of San’s hair, curls them in with intent. San hisses abruptly, lands a gentle slap to Wooyoung’s ass that has him laughing into San’s mouth.</p>
<p class="p1">Then, it’s like a chainsaw whirs somewhere in the apartment, stark against the silence. Wooyoung draws back an inch, stares past San’s shoulder at the door. “What was—”</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s Mingi.” San runs his hand lower, kneads at the right side of Wooyoung’s ass as he noses into the neck, kisses him over his jugular. “Snoring,” he clarifies, and Wooyoung’s restrained, answering keen says he already doesn’t care.</p>
<p class="p1">“Hyejin’s gonna kill me,” Wooyoung whispers, and then San nips at his skin and Wooyoung curls in closer, holding as much of San in his arms as he can manage, letting himself sink into his warmth. He intends to elaborate on whether Hyejin will use a red-hot curling iron or a steel nail file when she seeks revenge on Wooyoung for her lost hours of sleep, but instead he grips at San’s neck, breathes into his shoulder, “Fucked me so good last time.”</p>
<p class="p1">San draws back. Wooyoung’s heart plummets to the very pit of his stomach, and when he dares to look, San’s fixed him with a hard stare. “You can’t say that,” San says, and his hand clamps over Wooyoung’s jaw, holding up his chin.</p>
<p class="p1">“What? Why?” Wooyoung huffs, flushing in embarrassment, and he struggles in San’s grip, twisting his head so he can bite at San’s forefinger. All he gets for his trouble is San pressing said finger deep into his mouth, pulling it out again, dragging over Wooyoung’s tongue and wetly down his lower lip.</p>
<p class="p1">San’s chest rises and falls with even breaths. “I don’t wanna let you rile me up if you won’t follow through.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung lifts a brow, wrenches his way out of San’s hands. “Did I say I wouldn’t?” He reaches around San to lock the door, turn on the exhaust fan so it starts up in a low hum. He meets San’s eyes fleetingly, then sweeps the shower curtain aside, gets the water warming.</p>
<p class="p1">Behind him, he can hear the silence of San’s hesitation, and then a scramble to get undressed. San’s t-shirt hits the floor by Wooyoung’s feet, and the zipper on his jeans is next.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung decides he’s less sleepy now, more dizzied in a weird, giddy way as the shower starts to steam. He leans his shoulder against the wall, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt, and San’s in just his boxers when he hops up to help.</p>
<p class="p1">“Don’t let it get to your head,” murmurs San, running his hand down Wooyoung’s bare stomach and getting at his pants next, “but you’re hot as fuck.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung laughs, hoarse and a little flummoxed, balances himself with a hand on San’s shoulder. Then he catches a glimpse of himself in the fogging mirror. “Yeah, maybe keep your eyes below shoulder-level,” he advises. “Full-on panda eyes up here now that you wiped off any and all of my concealer.”</p>
<p class="p1">San snorts. Wooyoung finds he has a good vantage point in seeing the little crinkle of San’s nose as he does. San meets his eyes, though he’s lowering to the floor, tugging Wooyoung’s pants and boxers down with him. He’s half-hard when his cock springs free, but San doesn’t seem smug about it. “Once a pretty face, always a pretty face,” says San, standing, and oh, yeah, he can’t be smug, not when his boxers are tented like that.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung rolls his eyes, toes out of his socks and steps into the tub. “I need to wash my face, anyway,” he mutters, and the water is blissfully warm, though he’s kicked out from under it when San imposingly steps under the spray.</p>
<p class="p1">With his eyes closed, hair matting over his forehead as the water hits him from behind, San asks, “Why now?” There’s a sneaky curve to his mouth. “What if it gets messy later?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung arches an eyebrow. “Frankly, if I’m gonna be licking your jizz off my face, I don’t want it with a side of foundation.” As San gives the expected sputter, Wooyoung takes San’s shoulders and manually rotates them so he can get under the water, turn to wash his face as he’d said.</p>
<p class="p1">“Sometimes you say these things,” San muses shortly, and he gets his hands over Wooyoung’s hips, thumbs in the dimples at the base of his spine, “like you have no idea what they do to me.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung slicks his hair back from his face, squints backward through the running water at San. “Then tell me.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m no poet.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung chuckles, rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Cute. Oh—fuck. I forgot…” He shoves the shower curtain aside, steps over the tub’s edge, shivering and dripping water everywhere as he crouches in front of the sink, sorts through the cleaning products in the cabinets below.</p>
<p class="p1">“Hold up, I never agreed to Mr. Clean your shower grout,” San says, sounding genuinely alarmed, and Wooyoung lets the cabinets slam shut as he grins, nearly brains himself on the wall getting back into the shower. San’s hands are firm on his sides.</p>
<p class="p1">He wiggles a little bottle of lube near San’s face. “I don’t think this will do anything for the grout.”</p>
<p class="p1">San hesitates, amusement flickering through his dark eyes, and then he slides his hands up Wooyoung’s chest to his neck, rubs the tips of his thumbs under the bones of Wooyoung’s jaw. “You stash your lube where you keep your toilet bowl cleaner?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung smiles, taps his temple. “Think about it. No one ever cleans the bathroom. I’m a genius.” He nudges his way past San toward the unoccupied end of the tub, where a thin layer of water at the bottom of the tub laps at his toes. Hyejin’s hair is probably clogging the drain, but that’s not something he wants to think about now.</p>
<p class="p1">San moves so he’s not blinded by the shower. “Like what you see?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung realizes he’d been staring, blinks in a flurry. “No, I’m just thinking—”</p>
<p class="p1"><em>“No?!”</em> San squawks, jaw agape, and Wooyoung laughs brightly, steps close to smack gently at his chest.</p>
<p class="p1">“Stop, shut up,” he mutters, pinches the flesh of San’s cheek. “<em>Yes</em>, Sannie, you’re very sexy. But I’m just wondering how good a footing you can get in here.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Footing?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung promptly lowers to his knees. He’s never done this in the shower, and it doesn’t hurt his knees… yet. There’s not much room—his bent toes are already at the tub’s back-most limit, and if he wasn’t sat on his haunches, his face would be right up in San’s crotch.</p>
<p class="p1">He sets the lube on the tub’s edge, sprawls one palm over San’s thigh, wraps the other around his cock.</p>
<p class="p1">Up above, San groans, like he’s trying to tamper it, and Wooyoung huffs out a laugh, a hot breath against the damp skin of San’s hip. San’s blocking most of the spray of the shower, but rivulets still sluice down his body. He licks them off San’s hip, rubs his thumb up the underside of San’s cock.</p>
<p class="p1">“I haven’t done anything yet,” he states wryly, feels his head go fuzzy as he takes in the dark hair that trails down from San’s navel to the base of his cock, swallows thickly.</p>
<p class="p1">“Just… took me by surprise.” San taps his closed fist against the wall. His gruff voice seems to fade when he speaks next, fingers brushing stray, damp locks of Wooyoung’s hair from his forehead. “Come on, Wooyoungie.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung blinks droplets of water from his eyelashes, tips his chin up to drag the flat of his tongue over the head of San’s cock. When San hums, he suckles his tip into his mouth, sinks nails into San’s hip when his grip on him threatens to slip. Wooyoung takes him in deeper, draws back, sinks down again, and his senses feel dulled, like all he can hear are San’s breaths through the buzzing of the running water, like he’s lost feeling in his extremities except where he’s anchored to San.</p>
<p class="p1">“Faster, baby,” San urges quietly, hand drifting to the back of Wooyoung’s head to push him down. Wooyoung sighs out his nose, nudges his forehead to San’s tummy before he complies, bobs his head gradually faster. The sound of the rushing water doesn’t cover it up when his wet lips slurp around San’s dick and it brings a deep flush to his face, and the saliva running down his chin mixes with the droplets still clinging to his skin. San groans, heady and encouraging, and Wooyoung pulls off, absently lets San’s cock rest against his lips, smudging his cheeks, as he peeks up curiously, snakes his hand between San’s legs, fondling his balls, grazing a fingertip over his perineum.</p>
<p class="p1">It sets something off in San—what, exactly, Wooyoung doesn’t know, but he watches him grapple uselessly at the slippery, flat wall, rise up halfway on his toes so his cock slips against Wooyoung’s cheekbone. “God, f-fuck,” San exhales, and it ends on a high note, a near-desperate chord that zings through Wooyoung’s chest straight down to his cock.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah?” murmurs Wooyoung, pursing his lips to kiss the head of San’s cock. His eyebrows lift questioningly, and San merely watches, jaw slackened with a trail of water dripping down the tip of his nose and chin, until he finally tilts his chin in a faint nod. His fingers stroke over Wooyoung’s scalp almost affectionately.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung smiles to himself. He smudges a thoughtless kiss to San’s abdomen, reaches for the lube to coat his fingers while San pets at his hair. And with lube dripping down his palm and the back of his wrist, he gives San’s cock a sloppy lick, pets a slick finger over his entrance. He times it so once San feels relaxed enough under the pad of his finger, he presses it inside him gently, grips the base of his cock and swallows him down as deep as he can. <em>That’s it,</em> he thinks, working his finger into San, and he’d tell San so if he wasn’t already near-gagging on San’s cock.</p>
<p class="p1">San’s grip takes root at the top of Wooyoung’s neck, holds him in place, breaths labored as he pumps his hips, slow at first, fucking into Wooyoung’s throat, back against his finger.</p>
<p class="p1">“S’good, Wooyoungie,” San whispers, raspy, and Wooyoung’s eyes roll back a bit in his head. He’s definitely dripping spit down his chin now but he can’t feel it hit his knees, not while water runs down San’s arm and down Wooyoung’s neck and trails down his body. “S’good, so good.” When Wooyoung mindlessly curls his finger inside San, he hears the sweet <em>ah!</em> he makes, lets his other hand drift down between his own legs. Over and over, he strokes his fingertip against San’s prostate, eyes heavily lidded and stinging as San fucks his throat raw.</p>
<p class="p1">Then he’s coughing suddenly, mouth empty and scalp twinging as San pulls him off. His finger slips out of San but he clears his throat as he goes to press it back in, and San gasps, moans shakily when Wooyoung crooks in his middle finger as well.</p>
<p class="p1">San’s clearly trying to form words, and Wooyoung’s staring up at him expectantly, waiting for some explanation as San’s hard cock curves up between them. San closes his eyes, takes a breath, then shakes his head, forcing his glazed-over eyes down to Wooyoung, who smirks up at him, pets fingers inside him, hot and tight.</p>
<p class="p1">“Don’t you want to come?” Wooyoung asks, and if the soft lilt to his voice sounds put-on, so be it. It is. He’s got San like this now, and he’ll milk the most out of it he can.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>Ha, milk.</em> Wooyoung presses his fingers deeper, and San chokes out a groan, brow pinched.</p>
<p class="p1">“I do,” San argues huffily, and Wooyoung revels in it, revels in hearing his voice waver, at the mercy of Wooyoung’s fingers. “I just—were you being serious?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung tilts his head so his lips brush the side of San’s cock. He squeezes the base of his own. “About?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck, you know,” San insists, then turns his face toward his own shoulder, teeth gritted. His fist is white-knuckled on the wall. “About—coming on your face, can I come on your face,” he says in a rush, and Wooyoung laughs, thrusts his fingers slower, gentler.</p>
<p class="p1">“You been thinking about it?” Wooyoung lets go of himself, feeling generous, gets his hand around San’s cock again. He kisses his tip, licks indulgently at a bead of precome, kisses again, feels a smile come on. “Not since I said it earlier,” he murmurs, pouting thoughtfully. He drags the head of San’s dick over his lower lip. “But since I mentioned it the first time. It was in passing, you know, but. I bet you’ve still been thinking about it.”</p>
<p class="p1">San’s cock twitches in his grip before he can answer himself. “Wooyoung-ah,” he says, reproachful, like a warning, but his heart isn’t in it. Wooyoung doesn’t feel even vaguely threatened.</p>
<p class="p1">“You can come on my face,” Wooyoung tells him flatly, even shrugs his shoulders. “I guess I’ll have to close my eyes, but I got to watch you come last time. I’ll probably get by.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I take it back,” says San. <em>Oh, he speaks!</em> Wooyoung almost says, but San gets in first: “You’re not good. You’re a little shit.” But he grins down at Wooyoung. Wooyoung can’t help but smile back. “God, just—jerk me off, ‘m close.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Whatever you say,” drawls Wooyoung, pointedly crooking his fingers and making San’s knees half-buckle. He makes a clumsy grab for the lube, gets as much as he can on San’s cock with one hand, then tosses it off to fuck-knows-where so he can wrap his fingers around him, jack him quick.</p>
<p class="p1">San swears, and he’s pliant, so pliant around Wooyoung’s fingers, and Wooyoung watches, mesmerized, until San keens, “<em>Baby</em>,” and Wooyoung tips his chin up.</p>
<p class="p1">San’s hot come splatters on his lips, his cheek, the tip of his nose. A bit in his hair, too. Gross. The things he does for a boy he hardly knows.</p>
<p class="p1">He unhands San slowly, eases onto his haunches. He waits until San’s opened his eyes to lick what he can reach off his cheek, hum around the bitter taste. Then Wooyoung gets to his feet, staggering a bit at the struggle to fully straighten his aching legs, gets his lubed up hand around himself again. San doesn’t look away once, looks to be leaning heavily on the shower wall, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. His hand comes up to cradle Wooyoung’s cheek, smudges a thumb over his cheekbone and feeds it to him. San smiles cryptically at the distasteful scrunch of Wooyoung’s nose.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung leans into him, gets up close into San’s space, still tugging at his own cock. “You clean the rest,” he states, quiet, and San watches him a moment before his hand comes again to Wooyoung’s cheek. But Wooyoung flinches away, shakes his head. “No, no, with your tongue.” He smiles, then presents San with the side of his face, lashes batting.</p>
<p class="p1">San chuckles, somewhere low, low in his throat, and he drags his tongue over Wooyoung’s cheek at the very same time as he fumbles between them to close his fist over Wooyoung’s hand on his dick. Wooyoung’s lips part for a breath, and San sets the pace of their hands until Wooyoung lets it own fall away, tips his forehead onto San’s shoulder, bites down when release shakes through him.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">When Wooyoung opens crusty eyes, the alarm clock on his desk reads a digital, green <em>12:39</em>. He tries to shoot upright, but doesn’t get very far—his legs are tangled in the sheets, and more noticeably, with someone else’s legs.</p>
<p class="p1">San. San’s got one arm under Wooyoung’s pillow—one they’d been sharing, from the looks of the imprint and the dampened spot of drool beside San’s head—lips pursed in sleep.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung sighs, lowers slowly back down to sort out the leg situation. Yunho’s bed is empty, which means that, at the very least, he must be alive. Wooyoung remembers with a pang of pity that Yunho teaches class at 11am on Saturdays, the poor soul. He gauges that Mingi must be alive, too, from the ceaseless snoring beyond the cracked doors to Wooyoung’s room.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung looks regretfully at Yunho’s bed. He’d felt like a shitty friend the night before when he’d finally opened the door to the bathroom, let the steam waft out into the hall, both him and San wrapped in towels as they tiptoed past Mingi. Yunho’d been dragged properly onto his bed and tucked under the blankets, and as it was unlikely to have been Hyejin’s doing, Wooyoung had decided he owed Mingi quite a bit.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s warm under the sheets with San, and with the drafty room windowed on two walls, common sense is literally the only thing telling Wooyoung he ought to be out of bed before the clock strikes 1pm. He startles when San makes a sudden noise behind him, half-yawn, half-groan, and hooks his arm around Wooyoung’s waist.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung says nothing, does nothing, just shuts his eyes. San’s lips press to the back of his shoulder, and he hums out a sound of recognition, possibly as if to say <em>so we </em>are<em> alone</em>. Wooyoung must be right on the money, because then San’s shifting close, nudging his morning wood against Wooyoung’s ass. They’d had the sense to put on boxers, at least, before they’d climbed in bed.</p>
<p class="p1">“Good morning,” Wooyoung says in a monotone. San laughs, rough and high but quiet.</p>
<p class="p1">“Where’s Yunho?” San brushes his lips over the nape of Wooyoung’s neck. Wooyoung slaps him gently on the wrist, then nonsensically laces his fingers with San’s. He’d blame it on the morning, but they’ve officially passed into the afternoon.</p>
<p class="p1">“Dancing with nine-year-olds.” He exhales deeply, coughs out a chuckle.</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck,” squeaks San, sounding sadistically delighted. “Are you serious?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung hums. It’s dark behind his eyelids, dim in the room, sunlight blocked by blackout curtains. “Serious as the morning glory you’ve got going on down there.”</p>
<p class="p1">Yunho’s inevitable hangover plight forgotten, San giggles against the topmost knobs of Wooyoung’s spine. “You know, it’s been forever since I woke up next to an ass like this.” He detangles their fingers, and his fingers go to tease at the hem of Wooyoung’s boxers, pulling a flail and a squawk out of Wooyoung when San’s fingertips are cold as ice.</p>
<p class="p1">“Ass flattery, just what everyone wants to wake up to,” Wooyoung says dryly, fumbling until he’s got a grip on San’s wrist and holding it up in the safe zone. “It’s not that remarkable. So, what you’re <em>really</em> telling me is it’s been forever since one of your fucks wasn’t gone by the time you woke up.” San starts to laugh behind him. “You couldn’t do me the same favor?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Jeez.” San huddles close, his chest pressed to Wooyoung’s shoulder blades, chin hooking over his shoulder. “This your way of telling me to fuck off?”</p>
<p class="p1">“I thought it was pretty obvious,” says Wooyoung, secretly pleased with San’s warmth. He peels open his eyes, glances at the lines of sunlight bleeding in between the curtains. “Just would’ve made things easier. I wouldn’t’ve had to deal with hospitality. Like… servicing your boner. Or letting you pee first when I really need to. Or… when Yunho comes back, explaining to him why you were here, <em>while</em> you’re <em>still</em> here. That’s so much worse.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Mhm. And is this <em>servicing</em> still included in your hospitality package?”</p>
<p class="p1">When Wooyoung glances sideways, San’s propped himself up, is leering down at him with a sleepy, unfairly pretty face. An unreasonably <em>smug</em> face. Wooyoung drops his cheek back to the pillow, groans despite the smile on his lips. “Closed for service. I’m tired.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, <em>I</em> am feeling extremely well-rested, Wooyoungie.” San sets his chin on Wooyoung’s shoulder. “<em>Invigorated</em>, if you will.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung snort-laughs, and he’s sure it’s the most heinous noise that’s ever issued from his throat. He lets go of San’s hand to cover his face, whining dramatically. “I hate you.” Behind his hand, he contemplates. “I don’t want anything in my ass right now.”</p>
<p class="p1">San hums. “Okay. Can I blow you?”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung peeks at him from behind his hand. “How does that help you at all?”</p>
<p class="p1">San quirks his brows. “Oh, believe me, I can get off to it.”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung, admittedly tempted by the offer, licks his lower lip, glances toward the flimsy door. Mingi’s still snoring like a coffee grinder. Otherwise, the apartment lies in silence.</p>
<p class="p1">Then Wooyoung’s shifting onto his back, grinning sheepishly at San and shoving his bare chest away. “Go for it.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung has his thighs astride San’s shoulders, their blanket cover rendered useless now that it’s slipped down to San’s lower back. He gropes at the sheets, a thin sheen of sweat on his chest as San’s head bobs between his legs, as his hands sink into the muscle of Wooyoung’s thighs. Wooyoung has to bite hard on his tongue to stifle himself, glances sideways at the clock. He knows Yunho’ll be back within the hour, and if he’s calculated it right in his sleepy, sweaty, sex-hazed brain, he’ll have just enough time to wrestle San into a shirt and throw open the windows to air out the room. He’s so close already.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>Fuck</em>, he mouths at the ceiling, digs his heels into the hard muscle of San’s back, who gives him a not-so-quiet slap on the ass that echoes through the quiet apartment. Wooyoung giggles, and as a last resort, stuffs a few fingers in his mouth as his back arches from the mattress. San’s good, <em>really</em> good, and enthusiastic, pinning Wooyoung’s hips to the mattress so he’s doing all the work himself.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung peeks at the clock again. They have time, they have time. And anyhow, it’s so <em>quiet</em>, even the street is quiet enough that if Yunho comes running down the hill, distinct footfalls echoing on the sidewalk, it’ll give Wooyoung enough time to—</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, god.”</p>
<p class="p1">It’s not Wooyoung. Not San, clearly. He’s a bit busy.</p>
<p class="p1">“Are—are you guys <em>serious</em>?!” Mingi calls, voice gravelly. The closed door to the adjacent room is useless, and Wooyoung can hear him clear as day.</p>
<p class="p1">Hyejin’s door creaks open. Her bare feet pad determinedly down the hall. “Why are you yelling?” she hisses.</p>
<p class="p1">“Just—<em>no</em>, don’t go in there!” There’s a panicked scuffle of feet. “They’re literally <em>fucking</em>, don’t—!”</p>
<p class="p1">A pregnant pause. Wooyoung peers down between his legs, dizzied and humored and a little too enraptured as he watches San pull off, jerk him deftly as he sucks at the head of Wooyoung’s cock. There’s a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>“Jung Wooyoung!”</em> Hyejin hollers, so thunderous it rattles the walls, “You disgust me!”</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung is physically incapable of laughing silently, and he’s not trying very hard at all as San climbs up over him, looming on one hand, shoves his own boxers just low enough so he can stroke their dicks together, and god, Wooyoung is already so wet and leaking. He grips San’s hard shoulders, thumps his head against the pillow, comes on a strangled gasp over San’s fist.</p>
<p class="p1">San finishes himself off. <em>On</em> Wooyoung, as he’s apparently prone to doing now.</p>
<p class="p1">And like the gentleman he is, thirteen minutes later, Yunho uses the back door behind the kitchen to enter the apartment, hugging to his chest a brown paper bag. “I brought bagels!” he calls.</p>
<p class="p1">Wooyoung and San are dressed, seated casually at the dining set across from the couch. Mingi hasn’t stopped scowling once. Wooyoung and Yunho’s bedroom is frigid behind its closed door, circulating with chilly late October air.</p>
<p class="p1">Yunho comes through the kitchen, humming softly, stops short when he spots San first, then Wooyoung. Then Mingi.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh.” He blinks. He looks tired, going by the dark bags under his eyes, but there’s an ever-present, jaunty skip to his step. Then he reaches into the bag, pulls out a sesame bagel. “Bagel, anyone?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>gotta go - chung ha<br/>labyrinth - gfriend</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. so bad</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>San and Wooyoung conspire.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Midterms find Wooyoung no matter where he tries to hide. They find him, take him, wring out every little bit of juice left in him.</p><p class="p1">It’s why he’s already huddled up under the covers by eleven on a Thursday night, bone-tired. Yunho’s curled up in his respective bed, too, reading by the soft light of the lamp that clips onto his bed frame.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung’s phone buzzes clamorously on his desk.</p><p class="p1">He cracks open an eye. Sees Yunho’s gaze flicker curiously toward the desk, concentration interrupted, then revert resolutely to his book.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung sighs, slaps out a hand to grab his phone.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Choi San</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">wyddd~</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">:)</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p class="p1">Wooyoung frowns, rubs a fist into his left eye. <em>San</em>.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Choi San</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">sleeping</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p class="p1">San’s response is instantaneous.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Choi San</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">no</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">mingi’s parents r in town and he’s spending the weekend w them at some fancy ass hotel</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">that doesnt change the fact that im sleeping</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">are u sure</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">what do mingis parents have to do w me</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">don’t play dumb.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">come heeeeeeeereeeeeee ^-^</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">ill come tmrw</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">tn :(</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">:(((</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p class="p1">Wooyoung locks his phone, sets it facedown on the desk, and sags back into his pillow.</p><p class="p1">A few minutes pass. Wooyoung’s teetering on the blissful edge of sleep when his phone vibrates again, then a second time. Yunho spews out a quiet laugh. “Is your mom taunting you with homemade fried chicken pictures?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung smiles despite himself, grabs his phone again. “No, thank fuck. Last thing I need right now are midnight cravings.” He swipes the lockscreen open to his and San’s conversation, and the smile falls from his face like a mask.</p><p class="p1">San’s sent him a pouting selfie, and he’s naked from the shoulders up. The second is far less… sweet. Wooyoung feels himself zone out on San’s fingers wrapped loosely over the prominent shape of his cock in tight, white briefs.</p><p class="p1">He drops his phone to his chest, stares up at the ceiling, counts <em>one, two… three</em>. Then he’s whipping the covers aside, stumbling out of bed in his pajamas, one-handedly texting San to <em>venmo me $10 for uber bitch</em>.</p><p class="p1">Yunho looks on, baffled, as Wooyoung kicks off his pajama bottoms, checks the state of his hair in the mirror. “What… are you doing?”</p><p class="p1">“I… forgot.” Wooyoung blinks at his reflection, turns to go wiggle into jeans. “I have to meet someone.”</p><p class="p1">“It’s eleven.”</p><p class="p1">“Jeong Yunho, I was six when I learned to tell the time.” Wooyoung stuffs his feet in a pair of sneakers, tries at least to be grateful for the fact that he’d brushed his teeth.</p><p class="p1">Yunho assesses him. His lips wobble, then break into a smile too sunny for this time of night, much to Wooyoung’s chagrin. “Okay, that definitely wasn’t your mom. You totally just got a booty call.”</p><p class="p1">“<em>I just got a</em>—what? No.” Wooyoung shrugs a jacket on, keeps one eye on his phone.</p><p class="p1">“You just got booty-called,” Yunho cackles, lacing his fingers over his lap. “<em>Damn</em>. Damn. By who? Choi San?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung’s head jerks toward Yunho like that of a frightened deer, giving it all away. He could slap himself.</p><p class="p1">“Fuck, seriously?” Yunho laughs. “You should be thanking me, bro. I bring all the spice to your life. Courtesy of me and my connections, you’re now taking last-minute dick appointments instead of sleeping, which… honestly, is an unforeseen development—”</p><p class="p1"><em>“Connections?!”</em> Wooyoung yelps, grabs the pillow off his bed, scrambles close enough to whale on Yunho with it. “This”—one smack—“is not”—another—“<em>LinkedIn</em>.” A third.</p><p class="p1">Yunho cries out like a wailing child, hiding behind his hands. “Not—not the fresh drool!”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung relents, unclenches his jaw when his phone buzzes to alert him of his driver’s arrival. He drops his pillow, shakes his head, and strides to the door.</p><p class="p1">Yunho’s still cowering with hands protectively cupping his forehead. He flashes Wooyoung a reluctant thumbs-up. “I love you,” he says feebly. “Practice safe sex.”</p><p class="p1">Feeling guilty, Wooyoung stomps back across the room to kiss the top of Yunho’s head, fix his bangs for him.</p><p class="p1">In the back of the Uber, Wooyoung’s phone lights up.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <b>
    <em>Venmo</em>
  </b>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Choi San paid you $11.00. - remember to tip ;-*</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">There’s a split second that Yeosang, laundry bag in tow, lights up at the sight of Wooyoung in the hallway. It’s almost gut-wrenching, the way friendliness softens the edges of his intimidating features, then promptly goes to shit once he infers Wooyoung’s destination.</p><p class="p1">Yeosang stalls in front of San and Mingi’s door, glancing at its number, littered with stickers of glittering puppies. Wooyoung slows to a stop, too, fiddles with the hem of his jean jacket, looks between Yeosang’s face and the door. “Hi?”</p><p class="p1">“Quiet hours started at ten,” Yeosang responds placidly. Then he sighs, deep and steadying, as if locating his inner zen, and pads past Wooyoung to his own door. “And they last until nine in the morning. Please remind San, or I’ll lock him out of the bathroom again.”</p><p class="p1">San’s door opens noisily, and while the suddenness has Wooyoung staggering, Yeosang turns readily toward the sound. San smiles at Wooyoung—he’s fully dressed, though his sweatpants hang low on his hips so Wooyoung can see the white briefs he’d gotten a generous glimpse of earlier—then salutes Yeosang. “I heard you through the door, Yeosangie! Thanks for the reminder. I was <em>this</em> close to putting on Rage Against the Machine,” he declares.</p><p class="p1">Yeosang’s eyes narrow into slits. “You don’t even listen to Rage.” He opens his door, disappears inside.</p><p class="p1">San blows a raspberry after him, then opens the door wider for Wooyoung. Wooyoung decides not to look him in the eye as he slips inside, as that would mean defeat, admittance that he had indeed just Ubered to San’s dorm in the middle of the night, compelled by only a pouty boy and a low quality shot of his boner.</p><p class="p1">“Did you tip the driver?” asks San, shutting the door.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung shrugs out of his jacket, drapes it over the back of San’s desk chair. Only the string lights are on, and in one corner of the room, Mingi’s bed is neatly-made. San’s sheets are rumpled, like he’d been laying there, taking pictures of his crotch. As he had. “Yeah. The ride was cheap so I gave him a 120% tip ‘cos I wanted to use up all your money.”</p><p class="p1">San lets out a quiet laugh, pats Wooyoung on the back of the neck as he passes by on his way to bed. “Good boy.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung lifts an eyebrow at San’s back, toes out of his shoes. “You’re acting like the world’s cheapest sugar daddy.”</p><p class="p1">“And you’re the world’s most thankless sugar baby. I just paid for your ride. Show a little gratitude.” San perches on his mattress, legs dangling. He grins, leans back against his hands, swings his feet. Wooyoung is oddly endeared.</p><p class="p1">He rolls his eyes, traipses toward San’s bed with… a trace of hesitance. San looks him up and down. More than once.</p><p class="p1">“You can start by taking off your clothes,” San states, still swinging his legs with his voice dripping saccharine, and Wooyoung stares blankly, then pops the button on his jeans he’d only done up some fifteen minutes ago, because that’s what he’s here for, isn’t it?</p><p class="p1"><em>“How’s life, Wooyoung-ah?”</em> he murmurs mockingly, then abruptly feels silly. San knows next to nothing about him. Vice versa, Wooyoung knows nothing about San. Even if San <em>wanted</em> to ask after his daily ongoings, he wouldn’t know where to start. Wooyoung shucks his jeans off, and—oh no, San’s looking apologetic now, even if it’s Wooyoung who’s being unfair. He quickly lifts a placating hand, kicks his jeans off his feet. “Forget it, don’t look at me like that when I’m stripping. Feels weird.”</p><p class="p1">San half-smiles, slides off the bed. “I missed you,” he says, and as if in tandem, they both falter a bit, Wooyoung with one brow raised, San with a fleeting air of self-befuddlement as he scuffs his toes against the floor. San then clears his throat, steps nearer, mutters, “Let me help you,” and divests Wooyoung of his shirt.</p><p class="p1">Once Wooyoung can see again, he looks San in the eyes, so, so close, smiling faintly. He hooks a finger over the waistband of San’s sweats, tugs at them to playfully peek inside, asking, “Still kicking down there?” when San gets his hands over Wooyoung’s jaw, draws him up into a kiss. Wooyoung chuckles against his soft lips, lets his hands come to a rest on San’s waist under his shirt. “I think what you meant to say was you missed my ass,” he mutters, managing only to pull back a hair because San’s grip is firm.</p><p class="p1">“No, wrong,” San says, petulant, fingers spidering over Wooyoung’s cheek with a thumb tapping right below his left eye. “I also missed this.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung squints, scrapes his teeth against the flesh of San’s thumb. “What—”</p><p class="p1">“<em>This</em>,” San insists, not meeting his eyes, zoned out on some itty bit of Wooyoung’s face. “Your... dot. Freckle.” He sweeps his thumb aside, kisses Wooyoung too close to his eye, which pulls a squawk out of him, but San still doesn’t let go. “And this one.” He pulls next at Wooyoung’s lip with his thumb, a concentrated set to his brow.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung can’t help but smile, and his thumbs dig into the relaxed muscle of San’s stomach. His <em>dot</em>. “You’re more observant than I thought you were.”</p><p class="p1">“Underestimating me, are you?” San challenges, and his dark eyes dart to Wooyoung’s. Then he’s leaning down, cupping the side of Wooyoung’s neck as he tongues at the other, sucks gently. Wooyoung hums, warm and dazed.</p><p class="p1">“Maybe it’s just natural to notice shit about someone when you’re licking jizz off their face,” he muses, laughs loudly when San promptly smacks him on the ass.</p><p class="p1">“I noticed <em>before</em>,” San argues, nips him on the neck, and Wooyoung melts bodily into him, jaw slackened.</p><p class="p1">“Mm.” He turns his nose in toward the corner of San’s jaw, runs a palm up San’s abdomen. “You’re being cute. Kinda wanna fuck you right now.”</p><p class="p1">San’s forehead drops to his shoulder, and Wooyoung grins, because he can tell he’s <em>hiding</em>. “Cute?!” huffs San, and Wooyoung’s giggling again, stroking the small of his back.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah. Cute. Is that a yes?”</p><p class="p1">San straightens, and at first, his eyes are skeptical, but Wooyoung sees through it, sees through the smile tugging at his mouth. “I have a dance midterm tomorrow,” he says, quiet, almost rueful. “It’s… been a while. And I kinda need my ass mobility.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung sighs, fixated on San’s lips. “Pity.” Then he gathers himself, pushes San by the shoulders toward the bed. “I’ll just ride you instead.”</p><p class="p1">San may stumble backward, but he’s graceful about hoisting himself up on his bed and tugging off his shirt. “Can I just put it out there that I’m pleased with this course of action?” he asks. Wooyoung rolls his eyes, bites back a smile.</p><p class="p1">“You can shut up, is what you can do.” He helps San out of his sweats, licks his lips when he decides to make haste about getting San’s boxers off, too. He kicks away his own, hops onto the bed with a serious case of unabashed tunnel-vision for San’s cock, when he loses his balance crawling over a lump in the sheets. “What—what the hell is this? Are we having a threesome?” Wooyoung tugs the sheets free, exposing a pillow-shaped Shiba Inu plushie. He hesitates, presses his lips together tightly, and looks at San with an innocent sort of amusement.</p><p class="p1">San takes a moment to catch up. “Shit,” he hisses, slaps a hand over the plushie’s black, embroidered eyes, “cover yourself up, Wooyoung-ah! Show some decency!” Wooyoung does no such thing, but watches as San lurches off the bed and tiptoes over to his dresser, where he tucks the plushie into the bottommost drawer. He squats there a moment, shushing the closed drawer, then stands up, palms pressed together meditatively. “I usually have the foresight to protect my children from corruption,” San states. He turns to face Wooyoung, pouting against his fingertips. “I forgot. I’m a terrible father.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung sits against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. An oddly sympathetic smile comes to his face, and he breathes out a laugh. “It’s okay. Dogs probably can’t remember specific life events,” he offers, then hesitates. “And stuffed animals definitely can’t.”</p><p class="p1">San hushes him aggressively as he returns to the bed, all long limbs and lean muscle. It’s why Wooyoung is so profoundly distracted when San mutters, “Don’t say that so loud. That’s like telling Pinocchio he’s not real.”</p><p class="p1">“Pretty sure Pinocchio knew he wasn’t real.” Wooyoung rolls onto his back, kicks his legs apart to make room for San. It’s warm in the dorm, a prohibited space heater on full blast, so Wooyoung feels entirely comfortable pushing aside San’s blankets, cock half-chubbing against his thigh. He cranes his arms out pleadingly, opens and closes his fists, until San quits sulking and settles between Wooyoung’s legs, leans into him for the kiss he’d been silently begging for.</p><p class="p1">They kiss until Wooyoung’s lips feel sore, until San’s not-so-subtly rutting against him, and Wooyoung sighs into his mouth, runs his hands across the breadth of San’s shoulders, relishing just a bit. He taps San in the middle of his cheek as he lays his head lazily on the pillow. “Get me lube.”</p><p class="p1">“Watch your tone,” says San, and Wooyoung grins, bumps him in the ass with his heel.</p><p class="p1">“Get me lube, bitch,” Wooyoung amends, and San spends a whole ten seconds squeezing him at the most ticklish part of his tummy before he actually leans across Wooyoung to root around in his nightstand drawer. “Thank you,” he adds sweetly when the bottle comes into sight and he snatches it from San—San, who then sits back on the mattress on his knees, staring at Wooyoung with ominously narrowed eyes.</p><p class="p1">“If you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s not working,” Wooyoung states, uncapping the lube and bending his legs idly. He pokes one of his toes at San’s chest, and when San catches him by the ankle, pinches at his sensitive inner thigh, Wooyoung tries his very hardest to <em>only</em> squeak and keep his features schooled. “Because you were so mean and slow last time,” Wooyoung says, frowning first in thought as he slicks a finger, then simply in distaste when lube drips onto his chest, “you get to watch me finger myself.”</p><p class="p1">San genuinely gapes before he reassumes his stoic neutrality. “What?” he says, quiet but still in protest, and the fact that it’s almost a whine makes Wooyoung all the more visibly amused. San’s nails dig into his ankle.</p><p class="p1">“I’ll still sit on your dick, don’t pout.” He sucks a breath through his teeth as he presses his forefinger inside himself, eyes on San. San’s follow his finger. He’d still been holding Wooyoung’s leg in the air, so he eases that to the sheets, runs his palm up Wooyoung’s calf.</p><p class="p1">“I think you’re getting a little too comfortable,” San says absently, and he lets a shaky breath out his nose. Wooyoung crooks his finger inside himself, stroking slow, watches San’s dick twitch in interest.</p><p class="p1">“Oh?” Wooyoung licks his lips, stills his hand. “Did you want me to stop?”</p><p class="p1">San breaks into a disbelieving laugh. “Jung Wooyoung, I’m going to kill you,” he whispers evenly.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung chuckles through a <em>shhh</em> as he bats his free hand at San, mollifying, and stretches a second finger inside. “Just touch yourself, you’ll live,” he mutters, and his eyes loll shut helplessly. No, it’s not as torturous as having San’s fingers in him. Not as good, either.</p><p class="p1">He feels San’s hot breath on his thigh before his teeth and his tongue. And he stays there, hidden behind his closed eyelids, knowing just how <em>much</em> it’ll be when he actually looks. “Sannie,” he says faintly, feels a kiss to his inner thigh in response, has to kick one of his legs out straight for how much it all twists him up inside. It starts to feel urgent, then, as he scissors his fingers, pants a bit, hefts himself up onto an elbow and sees San there, on his stomach, already watching him. Wooyoung forgets what he’d meant to say, then clears his throat and asks, “You got a condom?”</p><p class="p1">San nods quickly, sits up, and in the process knocks his elbow harshly against the wall. He barely pauses to wince, though, opening the condom wrapper and breathing deep as Wooyoung opens himself with a third finger. “You look so good,” he mumbles, and Wooyoung looks at his eyes, those sneaky, shining crescents, and they’re sharing a hazy sort of smile between them when there’s a sudden, answering knock from the other side of the same wall. It can’t be Yeosang—he’s the opposite-side neighbor, shares a wall with Mingi’s bed—but San merely rolls his eyes. Wooyoung’s eyes go wide and questioning.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t worry about them,” mutters San, rolling on the condom and reaching for the lube. “They get the most noise complaints on the whole floor.”</p><p class="p1">“Just,” starts Wooyoung, words catching on a bread as he sits up and his fingers press deeper, “freaks me out that there’s someone, like, secretly four inches away while we’re naked.”</p><p class="p1">“They were probably there last time.”</p><p class="p1">“But I wasn’t <em>thinking</em> about it last time!”</p><p class="p1">San pinches Wooyoung’s chin, kisses him briskly. “Then stop thinking.” Wooyoung doesn’t really want San to pull back, but he does, and he’s watching San’s lips as he says, “You going on top?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung gives an affirmative jerk of his chin, bites back on a keen as he pulls out his fingers and they fumble to get settled without anyone plummeting off the absurdly-high twin bed. “What are you—” San starts when Wooyoung straddles his hips backwards. Wooyoung peeks over his shoulder at him, takes in San’s slack mouth, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, then goes about lubing up his cock with a shrug.</p><p class="p1">“I’m just trying something.”</p><p class="p1">“H—<em>oh</em>.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung sinks down slow, braces himself a bit unstably on San’s thigh, which flexes under his fingertips. His lips part silently, and he feels San scrabble for a grip on his hips, his ass.</p><p class="p1">“Holy fuck,” breathes San, and despite the stretch, the feeling that the air in his lungs is thickening, Wooyoung feels a twinge of smugness watching San’s toes curl the way they do. <em>Cute</em>, he almost says, but instead he lowers himself until San’s bottomed out, mewling when he can’t quite stifle it.</p><p class="p1">San smooths a palm over Wooyoung’s ass cheek, squeezes. His thumb presses against Wooyoung’s hole where he’s stretched around San’s cock, gets Wooyoung shuddering as he clenches tight. San swears under his breath. “Fuck, look at you.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung settles his hands on the mattress between San’s legs, slowly rocks up and rolls his hips back down. He tries to swallow it down—<em>for quiet hours’ sake</em>—but when San fucks up into him, meets him halfway, Wooyoung feels it in his core, keens loud and high. “God—stay still,” he grumbles pettily, slaps San’s thigh, hears his breathy laugh behind him. Then he’s able to find a rhythm, back arching as he steadily works himself on San’s cock, sweat beading at his hairline.</p><p class="p1">“Woo, Wooyoung,” San exhales, and then the angle changes when San sits up, the warmth of his back burning so close to Wooyoung’s skin, and Wooyoung whines sharply, muffled suddenly when San’s hand finds his chin and he presses two fingers in Wooyoung’s mouth. “Turn around, turn around, yeah? Please.” The flats of his fingers dig into Wooyoung’s tongue, and he sucks, heart rocketing as he nods. San’s lips brush the bones at the top of his spine, and then his fingers pull free.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung cries out softly as he rises up on his knees, catches himself on his hands before he can collapse, turning with some difficulty to sit astride San’s hips. “What?” mumbles Wooyoung, teasing, nudging his nose to San’s cheek. He reaches down to squeeze at the base of San’s cock, his own brushing San’s stomach between them. “Not having fun?”</p><p class="p1">San hums, turns his head to bite at Wooyoung’s lower lip, clutches at his waist as Wooyoung takes him inside again with teeth gritted. “I’m—fuck,” San chokes out, “I’m having the worst time ever.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung laughs, takes the opportunity to drape his arms around San’s neck, lay their foreheads close as he tucks his calves under San’s thighs. “Sucks for you,” he mutters, bites down hard on his lower lip as he fucks himself on San’s cock, scrapes his nails across the back of San’s neck.</p><p class="p1">“Mm,” San hums vaguely, one hand bizarrely gentle as he strokes Wooyoung’s back, the other urgent as it kneads at his ass. San licks over a spot on his neck, then seems to change his mind as he takes Wooyoung by the jaw and brings his head back upright, coaxes him in so San can straighten his spine, kiss at Wooyoung’s lax mouth. Wooyoung feels drunk on it, can’t kiss back much for all he’s panting, holding fast to San’s strong shoulders, but still San licks over his lips, leaves kisses on the corners of his mouth when he can, reaches high to pet through his hair.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung sets a quicker pace, and San braces himself with a hand on the mattress behind him, wraps the other around Wooyoung’s cock, the bed creaking in protest beneath them.</p><p class="p1">“Baby, you’re,” San breathes, never finishes the thought. “Fuck, fuck, Wooyoung, I’m gonna—”</p><p class="p1">“Sannie,” sobs Wooyoung, and his eyes flutter hazily at the feeling of San’s hips jerking, feels him pulse inside him, whines high and anguished as he digs crescents into San’s shoulders, streaks white between them. Fleetingly, as he breathes, strained through clenched teeth, he wonders how it’d be if there wasn’t a condom between them.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung blinks open his eyes when he realizes he’d been staring into the dark behind them for a bit too long. He sighs, takes in the sight of San, hair quite a mess—his own can’t look any better—and a drop of sweat running down his temple. Absentmindedly, Wooyoung smudges it away into his sideburn, smiles when he sees the curve to San’s lips, impulsively drops a peck there and climbs achingly off of him before it can get too weird.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Sweat drying on his skin, Wooyoung lays on San’s bed, halfway under his covers. San’s in the bathroom, having first wrapped himself in a ridiculous, floor-length purple bathrobe Wooyoung had spent a good few minutes poking fun at when he’d first seen it. San’s room’s bathroom door is shut, but Yeosang’s is evidently not, as by the sound of it, San’s chatting amicably with Yeosang while he runs the sink, and… it’s weird. Wooyoung taps the screen of San’s phone on his desk, sees it’s nearly one in the morning, then sags back against the sheets.</p><p class="p1">The door creaks on its hinges as San reenters, bumps it shut with his hip and goes about untying his robe. Wooyoung peeks open an eye to watch, sighs as he shifts onto his back.</p><p class="p1">“You’re not gonna kick me out, right?” he asks, lacing his fingers over his chest. He sounds sleepy even to his own ears.</p><p class="p1">San glances his way, eyebrow arched. He hangs the robe up, saunters over. “Why would I do that?” He perches on the bed’s edge, lips quirked.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung shrugs one shoulder. “You have a mean streak.” And when San rolls his eyes, Wooyoung flashes a satisfied smile. “You’re sleeping in Mingi’s bed, though, yeah?”</p><p class="p1">San blinks. “Am I?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung nods gravely, getting settled against San’s pillow. “Makes sense, y’know. These beds are tiny.”</p><p class="p1">San laughs, a bewildered sound as he slides to his feet. “And I guess it somehow makes sense that <em>you</em> get <em>my</em> bed, huh?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung flings his arm out, grasping at San’s wrist. “Where are you going?”</p><p class="p1">San stares a moment. “You just said I should—”</p><p class="p1">“I was <em>joking</em>. Fuck’s sake, San-ah.” Wooyoung shifts onto his side, wiggles until his ass is pressed against the wall, then smacks at the mattress. San squints, and it’s a little funny, the fact that he’s now abandoned his robe and is obstinate about getting under his own covers, but he concedes, slips under the sheets next to Wooyoung, takes care to drape them equally so no one’s hogging. He’s so close now that Wooyoung feels strangely shy, holds his hands near to his chest, and there’s a silent lapse between them until San leans in, eyes shaded, and kisses him, almost tentative.</p><p class="p1">It’s easier than sitting in silence, that’s for sure. Wooyoung rounds his palms over San’s collarbones, lets San nudge him onto his back in the tight, tight space, lets San tongue into his mouth with a hand on the mattress behind Wooyoung’s head. San’s hardly even on top of him, just leaning into his side, and Wooyoung loathes and revels in the silence that comes with this time of night when everyone’s falling asleep doing late-night work and he can only hear the sound of their mingled breathing, the hums he makes low in his throat that he can’t quite control. When San draws back, he licks his lips, smiles faintly and settles on his side. He drums his fingers against Wooyoung’s chest, eyes too piercing for Wooyoung’s liking.</p><p class="p1">“So what’s the deal with Mingi and Yunho?” is what San asks, and Wooyoung’s brows lift. Oh, <em>this</em>. <em>This</em> he can talk about with no discomfort.</p><p class="p1">“They both have zero game,” Wooyoung snorts. “That’s the deal.” He gazes up at the ceiling. “Yunho has a pretty solid brain-to-mouth filter, even when he’s drunk. It’s hard to get him to confess to anything in the <em>feelings</em> realm, much less confront it.”</p><p class="p1">“Like his heart boner for my roommate?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung giggles. “Yeah.”</p><p class="p1">“Mingi was trying so fucking hard to make a good impression that first night you guys came over,” San murmurs, tutting fondly.</p><p class="p1">“Disgusting,” says Wooyoung, and San smiles wryly. Then Wooyoung’s eyes widen. “Oh! Okay, was I right? That—that night at Star 1117, Mingi had Hongjoong-hyung invite Yunho? Yeah?”</p><p class="p1">San nods, eyes sparkling.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung pumps his fist. “I knew it, I knew it. And—and <em>I</em> was just asked so Yunho wouldn’t feel weird about going alone.” He looks to San for confirmation. “Right?”</p><p class="p1">San’s lips purse in thought. “Sure,” he says after a beat. He’s oddly focused on a freckle on Wooyoung’s chest.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung watches him. Then his mind wanders. “We need to Parent Trap them,” he states.</p><p class="p1">San looks at him questioningly, then lays his head to the pillow beside Wooyoung’s. Wooyoung affixes his eyes on the ceiling for a reason. “You mean…”</p><p class="p1">“We just need to get them alone together somehow,” Wooyoung says decidedly, lacing his fingers over his chest. “Mingi had the balls to ask Yunho over that first time, so kudos to him for that, but, like. There were <em>other people</em> there. Too many buffers. If we can get it to be just the two of them, or get them somewhere they don’t know anyone else but won’t be distracted by—by beakers and shit, whatever, the <em>chem lab</em>, then…” He shrugs, and his shoulder nudges San’s chest inadvertently.</p><p class="p1">“Then they’ll have babies and live happily ever after,” completes San. Wooyoung laughs softly.</p><p class="p1">“Something like that.” Wooyoung listens to San breathe deep close to his ear. Then:</p><p class="p1">“We can drag them on a double date,” San says, voice sleep-riddled. “And ditch them.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung blinks. “Who would—” And when he hears San laugh, he nods slowly. “Ah. With… us?”</p><p class="p1">“I don’t think it’d be that weird,” San murmurs. “Wouldn’t even really a date, anyway. They’ll just think we’re all hanging out, and then we’ll, <em>poof</em>, disappear—”</p><p class="p1">“Yunho’ll call the cops if he thinks I’ve gone missing.”</p><p class="p1">“—we’ll text Yunho that you’re safe and sound but have no plans to come back, and <em>then</em> we’ll, <em>poof</em>, disappear.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung bites down on a smile, then relaxes his features into nonchalance. “It’s not a terrible idea, you know.” He pauses. “Considering who came up with it.”</p><p class="p1">San’s hand immediately closes over his jaw, squeezes hard at his cheeks, which Wooyoung was waiting for. He smiles on reflex, presses his lips tightly together. San lets him go, lays his arm briefly across Wooyoung’s chest. Then he sits up with his back to the headboard and swipes up his phone, face glowing under the blue light. Wooyoung doesn’t move.</p><p class="p1">“Emails,” offers San quietly, and Wooyoung snorts.</p><p class="p1">“What are you studying?” he asks after a moment, tugging the sheets up further so they cover San’s lap while he’s seated.</p><p class="p1">San’s eyes flit to him. “Like, what’s my major?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung nods.</p><p class="p1">“Um, theater and performance.” He looks back at his screen. “You?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung closes his eyes and chuckles. “Film.”</p><p class="p1">San hums. “So, years from now when you’re directing a highly-anticipated movie with big-name actors and I audition, you’ll make me your lead, right?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung burrows down under the sheets. “No.” He grins at San’s scoff. “Obviously the casting director is in charge of that.”</p><p class="p1">San sighs. “You saying my stroke game isn’t nepotism-worthy?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung barks out a laugh. “I don’t know why the casting director would know anything about your stroke game.” He blinks open an eye, peers up at San. “Do you?”</p><p class="p1">He only gets a lifeless stare in response.</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">They queue up outside the movie theater. The line is blessedly short as it’s the weekend <em>after</em> the opening weekend of fuck-knows-what Marvel movie they’re supposedly meant to watch that evening. Or then the stupid fucks who don’t buy their movie tickets online and stand out in the cold are just a minority.</p><p class="p1">Anyhow, there’s a plan in the works. Wooyoung will have to disguise himself amongst the stupid fucks for now.</p><p class="p1">He clutches the collar of his jacket shut around his throat, shudders out a breath that’s visible in the night air. San is beside him, leant up against the brick wall like he’s posing for his next closeup and not freezing his balls off. Wooyoung accidentally catches his eye and they exchange knowing smiles. When they had all first met up to walk down to the theater, Mingi and Yunho had been immediately skeptical of Wooyoung and San both, taken unawares byunexpected guests on both ends. But since that moment some half an hour ago, they’d quickly warmed to each other’s company, now prattling together about this or that prequel or sequel a foot away from Wooyoung and San.</p><p class="p1">Near the front of the line, Wooyoung feels San pinch him at the waist, and, feeling like he’s the theater major between the two of them, he begins to pat at his pockets, feigns a gasp that’s just on the side of too-theatrical. “Forgot my wallet,” he mutters when Yunho glances his way, then leaps on him from behind, hanging from his shoulders so the toes of his shoes scrape the sidewalk. “Buy my ticket, I’ll pay you back.”</p><p class="p1">Yunho grumbles under his breath, “You probably forgot your bus pass, too, right? You realize the way back is uphill?” but his surrender is swift and painless. And when they’re next in line and Mingi makes to step up to the box office, Wooyoung makes a throaty noise of protest, shoves Yunho up ahead. “Yunho first!” he says shrilly as he drops to his own feet. Mingi’s eyes narrow, but only out of confusion, and Yunho’s already getting the tickets, having stumbled directly up against the attendant’s window with a bashful smile.</p><p class="p1">San pinches him on the ass this time. “Subtle,” he mutters.</p><p class="p1">“Got the job done,” whispers Wooyoung and crosses his arms tightly. When Yunho finishes up and Mingi goes to buy his own ticket, Wooyoung intercepts yet again, lunging between them both. “I—I just remembered,” he starts, raking a hand through his hair, “that—<em>San</em>, San really wanted to go see—shit, what was it called?” He squints at the showtime listings behind the box office attendant.</p><p class="p1">“Palm Beach,” San states.</p><p class="p1">Before Wooyoung can affirm this, Mingi huffs, “Like, that old-white-people romcom?”</p><p class="p1">“Yes.” Wooyoung takes San by the elbow. “Sannie already got us tickets to—to <em>Palm Beach</em>, so—” He flails his hand between Yunho and Mingi. “Mingi-ssi, take my ticket so it doesn’t go to waste.” San’s backing toward the entrance already, so Wooyoung follows, careful not to trip on the cracks in the sidewalk. “<em>Okay</em>, enjoy! See you in a few hours! Or not!” He waves frantically, then turns on his heel to head inside as San pulls him through the door, gets his mobile tickets scanned by the waiting worker. Wooyoung begins to wonder what the purpose of having an excuse is if it’s as shitty as theirs—they might as well have made a break for the nearest bus stop and <em>truly</em> stranded Yunho and Mingi—but his train of thought hits a roadblock when San asks him:</p><p class="p1">“Did you want popcorn?”</p><p class="p1">“Hm?” Wooyoung blinks, realizes they’re passing the concession stand. Behind them, Yunho and Mingi are hesitantly coming through the doors, so Wooyoung hurriedly pushes San into the hall of theater entrances. “Mm, no, I’ll eat the whole thing and wake up all puffy. Which theater is it?”</p><p class="p1">San checks his phone. “Three.”</p><p class="p1">Theater three is deserted. For a moment, they idle by the doorway, taking in the rows and rows of unoccupied seats while the previews blare on the screen. Then Wooyoung snorts, heads for the back-most row. “Must be a real blockbuster.”</p><p class="p1">“I just picked whatever started at the same time, okay?” San says, not quite in defense of Palm Beach.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung sinks into the cushy seat and watches San slink over. He lets his head loll back, gets comfortable, jabs a knuckle into the button that sends the chair reclining. “We could nap.” His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he takes a peek, laughs. “Yunho just sent me a bunch of question marks.”</p><p class="p1">The chair beside Wooyoung seems to breathe out a sigh as San sags into it. “Don’t respond. He’s a big boy. He can figure it out.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung stares at the <em>????????????</em> on his screen, pouts without thinking. “Can I send him a smirky emoji?”</p><p class="p1">San chuckles, cranes out his arm to lock Wooyoung’s phone for him. “You’re too busy studying exotic cinema of the <em>old, rich Australian people</em> genre.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung glances at San, begrudgingly puts away his phone.</p><p class="p1">Some indeterminate time later, some utter nuisance of a character in the movie hollers, voice booming through the speakers. Wooyoung opens an eye to peer at the screen, because apparently he’d closed them both at some point. It’s also apparent that he’d sagged to his left, now with a cheek to San’s warm, hard shoulder, and he flinches upright, scrubs a hand across his eyes. “Fuck,” he croaks, and when he looks over, San’s smiling wryly, colored light flickering over the side of his face.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t worry. Still a whole hour left!” San says with a jolly pump of his fist.</p><p class="p1">No matter how long-suffering Wooyoung attempts to look, he knows his smile bleeds through. He clears his throat, turns his head toward the screen. “What do you think our parents are doing right now?”</p><p class="p1">San hums. “I mean, considering Mingi’s had a countdown on his phone since the release date came out, my guess is they’re <em>actually</em> watching the movie.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung makes a piteous noise and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “They’re so boring. We’ll be lucky if they tenderly brush hands sometime in the next month.”</p><p class="p1">San laughs, a tinkling little sound where the movie’s soundtrack dulls. “<em>Fuck</em>,” he breathes. “And you know what has to come after the tender hand-brushing, don’t you? They’ll need to coincidentally attend the same lavish ball hosted by a friend-of-a-friend, where they can avoid each other all night until one finally works up the guts to ask the other to dance, and they can finally come together for an ephemeral, sexually-charged waltz until something inevitably goes wrong at the worst moment. Bonus points if it’s a masquerade ball.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung, with his weight leant heavily onto his elbows on the armrest between them, squeaks out a laugh and drops his forehead to San’s shoulder. “You got any friends-of-friends who can host a masquerade ball?” Peeking up at San, Wooyoung can see his lips purse, then smack apart.</p><p class="p1">“Nope.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung deflates, sighing every bit of air in his lungs out his nose. “We’re doomed.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung shuts his eyes. The movie continues on, an ebb and flow of commotion and color on the screen. He doesn’t even know which character is who. He lifts his chin to set that on San’s shoulder instead, inspecting what looks like a smattering of freckles on his neck whenever the light of an on-screen blue sky illuminates his skin. And then San turns his head—the freckled skin folds under Wooyoung’s watchful eye—says nothing, just smiles. So Wooyoung hugs San’s arm to his chest, feels the dig of his bony elbow into his sternum, leans up to peck his lips.</p><p class="p1">It takes only a split second of San’s hesitation to have embarrassment dripping from Wooyoung’s chest all the way down to his toes, but then San detangles their arms, shoves up the armrest between them to turn their chairs into a loveseat, hooks his arm behind Wooyoung’s neck to draw him close.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung slides too easily against the leathery seat until his and San’s hips meet, balances himself with hands on San’s chest, one snaking up to that starry splatter on his neck. And it’s devastatingly easy, it is, to fall into lazily kissing, sucking on San’s tongue and overheating in the coat he never took off.</p><p class="p1">He’s rolling the heel of his hand against San’s crotch before he knows what he’s doing, feeling San’s groan reverberate between their mouths. It trails off into a breathless chuckle when San draws back, presses their foreheads together. Wooyoung feels dizzy. “Do they have security cameras in movie theaters,” San mutters without the lilt of a question. Wooyoung shrugs. San nudges his nose into Wooyoung’s. “You wanna get arrested for public indecency?”</p><p class="p1">“I’m not doing anything wrong,” Wooyoung protests. The shape of San’s cock is more distinct against his hand the longer he rubs at him.</p><p class="p1">San chuckles, not sounding all there, when the doors to the theater creak open and two figures stumble in, mere silhouettes in the dark.</p><p class="p1">San and Wooyoung whip apart in sync, stare at the intruders as they make their way toward the front row, hunched toward each other, whispering. Wooyoung feels sweat cooling on his brow.</p><p class="p1">“Who the fuck misses half a movie and decides it’s still worth watching?” he hisses.</p><p class="p1">San, steadying his breathing, mutters, “Maybe they Parent Trapped their friends, too.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung considers it. They sit stock-still. A tentative grimace comes to Wooyoung’s face when the pair collapses into the front row, a delicate giggle here, a distinct smack of a palm on skin there. “I don’t think they know we’re here,” he breathes. San’s fingers abruptly find his wrist.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, no. They’re literally about to fuck.” San hauls Wooyoung hastily out of the seat and to the doors.</p><p class="p1">They both have to squint against sudden, warm light as they break out into the hallway. Wooyoung notes that San’s lips look especially kiss-bitten, even when they stretch into a grin and San breaks out into shrill laughter.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung just shakes his head, smooths fingers over his brows. “Yunho would say something about karma if he knew what just happened.”</p><p class="p1">San comes close and pinches his cheek. “But you weren’t doing anything wrong,” he says, voice pitched up mockingly.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung rolls his eyes, succeeds in biting the tip of San’s finger. “Whatever. Buy me popcorn.”</p><p class="p1">San’s eyebrows lift. “What about—”</p><p class="p1">“I changed my mind.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Wait—<em>no!</em> I’m not ready!” San utters, but the Milk Dud is already soaring through the air in a graceful arc, and San, like one of those athletic little dogs born to play fetch, bounds a few steps backward and springs into the air to catch it in his mouth.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung lets out another peal of laughter, tilts his head back against the wall beside the public water fountain. “That’s…” He peers into the Milk Duds box uselessly. He has no idea how many there were to begin with. “How many?”</p><p class="p1">“Sheven,” says San, cheeks full as he lopes back toward Wooyoung. His tongue scrapes along the inside of his cheek. “Or eight.” He squats by Wooyoung’s outstretched legs, bows his head and covers his mouth to chew. “These’re literally gonna glue my jaw shut, what the fuck.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung hums in praise, reaches out a hand to squeeze the back of San’s neck. “You’re just so talented,” he purrs, only grins when San side-eyes him and chews vigorously on the mouthful of caramel.</p><p class="p1">The pail of popcorn is empty but Wooyoung had been too caught up in their little Milk-Dud-tossing game to throw it out. They’re still in the hallway of the movie theater, for… for unknown reasons.</p><p class="p1">“If any of my teeth fall out, you can have them,” San mumbles around his mouthful, slumping to a seat up against the wall. Wooyoung clambers to his feet to toss the popcorn bucket out, wipes his salty-buttery fingers on his jeans before he gives San’s hair a delicate pat, but doesn’t get very far, because approaching them from theater one are Yunho and Mingi.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung’s eyes go wide. He takes a backward step, trods on San’s leg—<em>“Aaah!”</em>—and mutters, “Fuck, is it that late?”</p><p class="p1">San’s busy cradling his bruised calf, smacking at Wooyoung’s ass in retaliation. “Hm?” He follows Wooyoung’s gaze. <em>“Mm.”</em></p><p class="p1">“We should’ve probably left sooner,” says Wooyoung. There’s an edge of murderousness to Yunho’s eyes that’s undetectable when he looks at Mingi but on full throttle when he looks at Wooyoung. Wooyoung’s not sure he can <em>aegyo</em> his way out of this one.</p><p class="p1">“Hi,” says Yunho, when they’re close enough.</p><p class="p1">San’s still chewing. Wooyoung smiles at them, the popcorn bucket collapsing against his chest as he hugs it too tight. “Hey. How was Justice League?”</p><p class="p1">Yunho squints. “It was Avengers.” He glances at the sign for theater three. “How was… <em>Palm Beach</em>?”</p><p class="p1">San answers, a hand still cupped over his mouth, “Erotic,” just as Wooyoung manages to get out, “Geriatric.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung presses his lips together tightly, feeling the confused heat of Yunho’s gaze. San drops his head toward his knees and laughs.</p><p class="p1">“Right.” Yunho puts his hands on his hips. “Uh, so, I was just telling Mingi how my dance kids have dress rehearsal for their recital early tomorrow, and I need to be there by, like, seven, so…”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung blinks a few times. Very quickly. “We should get going,” he finally fills in Yunho’s blank.</p><p class="p1">Yunho nods, but looks a little downtrodden. His eyes flicker to Mingi from their corners, and to San. “Sorry, I don’t mean—”</p><p class="p1">Mingi smacks a hand on the back of Yunho’s shoulder. “Are you kidding? No way we’re gonna be the reason twenty nine-year-olds won’t have their Sugar Plum Fairy tomorrow morning.”</p><p class="p1">Yunho’s lips quirk. He rubs his fingertips into his eyelids. “Listen, I already said I’m not the Sugar Plum Fairy, I just <em>fill in</em> for her during the kids’ practice so they don’t accidentally hit her when the actual time comes. The real Sugar Plum Fairy is a very busy woman, as you might expect.”</p><p class="p1">Mingi shakes his head, grip steady on Yunho’s shoulder as he starts to steer him toward the exit. “I just don’t understand why you won’t admit you’re the queen of Candyland.”</p><p class="p1">“She’s not a queen, she’s a fairy! And it’s the fucking Land of Sweets, dude.”</p><p class="p1">San’s at Wooyoung’s side, then, muttering in his ear, “They’ll be at longing gazes by next week.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung snickers and thumps the empty popcorn bucket against San’s front, which San takes and stuffs into the nearest trashcan. He’s already anxious about being alone with Yunho at home, but he finds brief respite when San drifts closer again, skipping backward toward the doors, and Wooyoung spots a smudge of chocolate on his lower lip. It’s Wooyoung’s fault, mostly, for chucking so many Milk Duds at him, so it must be his duty, too, to shuffle up to San and smudge it off with his thumb, lick it clean, salty and sweet.</p><p class="p1">San’s fingers float up near his face and Wooyoung has to stop him from walking backward into a velvet rope, assuring him, “It’s all gone.”</p><p class="p1">The air is brisk outside. Yunho is unmoved by the chilly gust of wind that blows cruelly underneath Wooyoung’s jacket. “I think we’ll walk home,” says Yunho, and despite Wooyoung’s immediate grimace, he plows on, “since Wooyoung forgot his bus pass.”</p><p class="p1"><em>Aw, shit.</em> Wooyoung makes a sound like <em>ha ha</em>, but it’s far from a laugh. “Okay.” He meets the eyes of San, who’s already watching him, and he can’t be sure if their eye contact is meaningful in any way, but it does bring an absentminded smile to his face.</p><p class="p1">“San-ah,” Mingi says, tone lifting. He points down the dark street. “Is that the 17B?”</p><p class="p1">San hurries to the curb, hangs off a lamppost to peer into the road. Sure enough, a digital orange <em>17B</em> is visible on the back of a bus idling a block over. “Fuck. We need to run.” He slaps Mingi’s ass, takes off in a sprint, footsteps a percussion on the sidewalk. Mingi’s far less <em>cheetah</em> than San as he lopes to follow, waving at Yunho and Wooyoung over his shoulder.</p><p class="p1">They stand in silence, watch as the bus lurches forward only an inch when San’s distant silhouette slams a hand on its closed doors. “Let’s go,” murmurs Yunho, turning in the opposite direction. Reluctantly, Wooyoung falls into step with him.</p><p class="p1">He keeps his trap shut. He can tell Yunho is stewing, cracking his knuckles in his jacket pockets and probably contemplating the best way to piece together his thoughts, though Wooyoung thinks <em>you’re an idiot, Wooyoung</em> would be a simple enough summary.</p><p class="p1">But the silence is cloying, so Wooyoung starts with, “I’m sorry,” just as Yunho hisses a sigh out his nose and says, measured but defeated, “That was really weird.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung blinks. Yunho looks at him, just for a second, then back ahead again, presses the button for the crosswalk when they reach it.</p><p class="p1">“Like, I wasn’t ready for that,” mumbles Yunho. “And I <em>know</em>, I know you’re gonna say that if you’d told me in advance, I would’ve chickened out and not come out at <em>all</em>, but.” His nose crinkles a bit, and when a car whizzes past, he hooks his fingers in Wooyoung’s elbow to tug him further from the curb despite there being no real danger. “It just felt kinda weird, you know—not to be dramatic, or anything—knowing that you made up some secret plan behind my back with your… your <em>FWB</em>, or whatever.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung cringes at his choice of nomenclature, but he supposes it hits the head of the nail closest on what San is to him. Yunho’s words begin to sink in, and he wraps his arms around himself as the light goes white and they step onto the crosswalk. When he opens his mouth to speak—exactly <em>what</em>, he doesn’t know yet—Yunho cuts in.</p><p class="p1">“I’m sure you had good intentions, and it might’ve worked on someone else, and—fuck, I’m not gonna lie and say I don’t like Mingi like that,” he breaks for a self-deprecating laugh, “but. Just. I don’t know. I was so confused and embarrassed when you ditched us that I probably made him think I <em>hated</em> him and so I panicked and made it awkward and now nothing will <em>ever</em> happen and—”</p><p class="p1">“Yunho.” Wooyoung smiles faintly, peers up at his despondent profile. He takes Yunho’s arm, which Yunho only grudgingly gives him, and hugs it to his chest. “Okay, first off, he doesn’t <em>hate</em> you, that’s for sure. Ask San.” He snorts, then feels his smile fade slightly. The sidewalk starts to slant up, which is a bitch, but Wooyoung takes a deep breath. “Right, um.” He looks toward the row of streetlights ascending the hill, can feel Yunho’s eyes on the side of his face. “Yeah, okay, it feels shitty and it’s gonna <em>sound</em> shitty that I didn’t realize it was wrong until just now, but, um. That’s how it went. I’m sorry.”</p><p class="p1">“It’s okay,” Yunho mutters, and Wooyoung laughs humorlessly.</p><p class="p1">“I was just gonna say <em>you don’t have to forgive me right now</em>.” Yunho says nothing to that. Wooyoung watches his feet. “I think I… got caught up with, like…”</p><p class="p1">“San?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung blinks. “Yeah, kind of. I don’t know. But clearly I wasn’t thinking about your feelings, which is awful, because I actually <em>know</em> you and maybe if I’d thought a little longer I would’ve…” He shrugs. “Put myself in your shoes. Realized it was a bad idea.” He licks his lips, squeezes Yunho’s arm. “I’m sorry.”</p><p class="p1">Yunho hums, toneless. They trudge a few steps in silence. Then, “Seems like you had fun, though.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung’s eyes flicker to Yunho. His face is neutral, perhaps a bit inquisitive.</p><p class="p1">“I mean…” Yunho frowns in thought. “It’s not like you have a habit of pretending my feelings don’t exist. You’re good about that. Usually. But, like… you must’ve been having fun with San, or something. Setting us up.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung’s eyes narrow into slits. “You implying something?”</p><p class="p1">Yunho lifts his chin, shakes his head and bats his eyes innocently at the street ahead. He’s not in better spirits, Wooyoung can tell, but apparently he’s trying. Wooyoung hugs his arm tighter.</p><p class="p1">“It’s not like that,” he grumbles eventually and lays his cheek on Yunho’s shoulder.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>gotta go - chung ha<br/>labyrinth - gfriend<br/>so bad - stayc</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. love talk</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>San is late, and Yeosang is always right.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Wooyoung’s knock is halfhearted, too focused on checking an email that’d just come in about his most recent film studies test score. Once he’s had a chance to make sure he got at least the class mean—two points under, close enough—he looks up at San’s door. Nothing. He knocks again with more intent, sticks his ear to the door—still nothing—then pounds the side of his fist to it with a shout of, <em>“Choi San!” </em>when Yeosang’s door swings open several feet to his right.</p><p class="p1">Yeosang pokes his head out. He looks both ways down the hall, and then finally at Wooyoung, who’s watching him in startled silence. “San’s not here,” he says helpfully. Wooyoung drops his arm to his side.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, apparently not.” He frowns down at his phone. “He told me to be here at nine.” His lockscreen reads <em>9:13</em>.</p><p class="p1">“He’s probably still at dance.” Yeosang considers him, and when Wooyoung realizes he’s doing this, he scrutinizes him back. Yeosang is dressed comfortably, with a thick, black headband holding fried blonde hair away from his eyes. He turns on his heel to recede into his room, leaves his door hanging open. “You can wait in here, if you want,” Wooyoung hears, but only barely, so he’s hesitant about following him inside, closing the door.</p><p class="p1">Yeosang’s room is very much the same as Wooyoung had last seen it—jungle juice carpet stain included—tidy and warm but scattered with knickknacks. He’s taken a seat at his desk, the contents of which have seemingly been evacuated to his bed to make room for a scale model of a house.</p><p class="p1">“Whoa!” Wooyoung wheezes, slips out of his shoes to go and hunch over Yeosang’s chair. “Did you make that?”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang just looks over his shoulder at him for a moment. Among various tools, there’s an X-acto knife on his desk, piles of foam board squares, a pot of adhesive. Yeosang’s lips twitch at a smile and he nods, turns back around. “Yeah.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung blinks in awe. “That’s no joke.” He comes around to Yeosang’s left, examines what appears to be a miniature, glass-paned sunroom at the back of the house. “Shit.” He sinks to his knees, perches his chin on the desk’s edge. “I have small hands, but my fingers still could <em>never</em>.”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang chuckles. “Yeah, um, I’m gonna have to ask you not to touch anything.”</p><p class="p1">“Had no plans to,” Wooyoung says mechanically, mesmerized by the level of detail. “Is this for class?”</p><p class="p1">“Mm. I study architecture.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, clearly.” Wooyoung smiles. For a moment, he just watches Yeosang fiddle meticulously with a ruler, his grip oddly elegant as he sweeps a pencil along its edge. Inevitably, his eyes begin to wander, first over Yeosang’s profile, then to the bed behind him, where all the little animal sculptures from his desk temporarily reside. And between the bed and the desk, the ugly jungle juice splotch. “You never managed to get that out?” murmurs Wooyoung, pointing with a grimace.</p><p class="p1">Once Yeosang’s finished the current task at hand, his eyes follow Wooyoung’s finger. He huffs. “No. Fucking Choi San. If they take my room deposit at the end of the year I’m hacking his bank account.” He turns back to the foam board he’s cutting. “I guess it won’t really be hacking, though, because he doesn’t use face ID and I know his phone password.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung presses his lips together tightly, neglects to mention that it was he who’d ever-so-adroitly dropped his cup on Yeosang’s floor. Decidedly, he continues to badger Yeosang. The polymer clay giraffe he’d noticed the first time he’d visited is a strange stamp in his drunken memory. “Did you make the animals, too?”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang snorts without lifting his eyes. “Yeah. Those—not for class.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung rises, wanders over to the bed with his hands linked behind his back. Then he stops short, just a step away from its edge. “Can I sit?” he asks. “I know, like, some people have a thing about others putting their asses or feet all over people’s beds, or, like, even wearing the clothes they wear outside to lay on the bed. So it’s cool if not.”</p><p class="p1">Looking over his shoulder, Wooyoung can only see the back of Yeosang’s head, but for some reason, when he speaks, Wooyoung imagines him smiling around his words. “I don’t have a thing,” says Yeosang. He unscrews the pot of glue. Wooyoung idles. Then he hops up, lays on his side to contemplate the figurines. A spotty giraffe, a parrot, a hedgehog, a black cat, a brown bear.</p><p class="p1">“Can you make me one?” sighs Wooyoung. He starfishes on his back, turning the giraffe between his fingers, and jumps to add, “I mean, I’ll totally pay you. Artists are exploited way too often for their skills. Underpaid, usually. Or not paid at <em>all</em>. Like, freshman year, my friend Yeonjun hung out with these music-snob hipster types who hosted indie concerts in the big living room at their house, and when they found out he could do graphic design they’d <em>always</em> ask him to make their fucking concert posters on the shortest notice ever, and he could never say no—<em>believe</em> me, I tried to say no <em>for</em> him—and he made them so much cool shit and all they ever gave him were their <em>thanks</em>. Honestly, who gives a fuck. Gratitude isn’t enough. Like, people, I know how much pot you’re smoking, at least cough some of that up.”</p><p class="p1">When Wooyoung’s eyes come into focus on the blur beyond the giraffe that is Yeosang, he sees he’s smirking. “You don’t have to pay me,” he chuckles, then turns back to his desk. “Those are worth shit. I would take weed, though.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung gapes at the ceiling, holds the giraffe up above his eyes. “I can’t believe you just said that,” he murmurs gravely, almost to himself. He pets his fingertip over the giraffe’s snout. “He just called you worthless, you know. Yet... you were a labor of love. Of that, I am certain.” Wooyoung sighs deep, lays the giraffe on his chest. “And love is priceless. But I’m sure you’re feeling overwhelmed. Your feelings are valid, considering your creator just disowned you.”</p><p class="p1">From four feet away with his back still turned, Yeosang asks dryly, “Do you need me to call someone?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung hoots out a laugh.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Wooyoung is so engrossed by Yeosang’s laptop, exploring his model house on Autodesk Revit, that he doesn’t notice it when the door slams next door and rattles the wall between the rooms aggressively. Not long ago, Wooyoung had run out of animal figurines to peruse and Yeosang had given up on working on his scale model, joining Wooyoung on the bed. They’re on their backs, side by side, with Yeosang’s laptop resting against Wooyoung’s thighs.</p><p class="p1">“I feel like this would be easier to navigate if you made it in Minecraft,” mutters Wooyoung.</p><p class="p1">“My professor’s pushing seventy,” Yeosang says, “I don’t think he’d appreciate that.” He waves a hand at the screen. “Barely knows how to use this as it is.”</p><p class="p1">“<em>Seventy</em>?” Wooyoung scoffs. He glances toward Yeosang’s house on the desk. “You put so much detail into that thing. Are you sure he can even see it?”</p><p class="p1">That gives Yeosang pause. He squints at the ceiling. “I never thought of that.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung smirks, chuckles quietly. He clicks inelegantly through the computerized house, then blinks. “What is that? An outhouse?”</p><p class="p1">“<em>Outhou</em>—?” Yeosang shifts closer to take a look. “No, that’s a fucking greenhouse, I just didn’t finish it yet.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung laughs gleefully. “Looks like an outhouse to me.”</p><p class="p1">“On what planet are outhouses made of glass? Are you an exhibitionist shitter?”</p><p class="p1">“That’s glass?” Wooyoung asks, though his voice is now trembling with laughter. “Oh, god. Can you please make a glass outhouse and hide it in here somewhere before you submit it?”</p><p class="p1">He feels Yeosang’s critical stare on the side of his face. “For that, you’d definitely have to give me weed.”</p><p class="p1">“This is the easiest business deal I’ve ever made.”</p><p class="p1">“I have this feeling it’s the only one.”</p><p class="p1">Through Yeosang’s bathroom door, the sound of its twin being thrown open reverberates. Then there’s a curt knock, sounding suddenly so close. Yeosang sits up on his elbows just in time for San to burst in. Wooyoung frowns, lowers the laptop’s lid so he can see San over his knees. He looks tense, a little flushed, maybe from the cold.</p><p class="p1">It seems to take a moment for it to sink in for San that he’d just busted into Yeosang’s room uninvited. He clears his throat, sweeps his hair back from his eyes. “I—I heard you through the wall,” he offers, pinning Yeosang with a stony gaze.</p><p class="p1">“I told Wooyoung he could stay and wait for you.” Yeosang sits up all the way, checks the time on his phone but doesn’t comment on it. Wooyoung sees that it’s past ten.</p><p class="p1">He sits up, too, slides the laptop onto the sheets.</p><p class="p1">“That was nice of you,” says San. Wooyoung arches an eyebrow.</p><p class="p1">“You’re late as fuck,” he says, and climbs intrusively enough across Yeosang’s lap to get off the bed that it pulls an indignant noise out of Yeosang.</p><p class="p1">San’s lips pinch together. “I know, sorry. Practice ran long.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung shrugs. He doesn’t really know what that means. He and San don’t make much idle chitchat about their hobbies, and he’s fairly sure San wasn’t in class on a Friday night.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung stands by the bed with his fingers linked in front of his body. Just stalls, lips pursed, and bats his eyes with a shake of his head. “What?” he directs blankly at San.</p><p class="p1">San’s fingers graze the bathroom door handle. His eyes flicker to the floor. “Are you coming?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung huffs a quiet laugh. He pats the nearest poster of Yeosang’s bed. “It seems I’m being summoned. Thanks for the company, Yeosang.”</p><p class="p1">“Sure.” Yeosang gazes expressionlessly at San, then gives Wooyoung a thoughtful smile. “I’ll have to think about your animal.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung’s at the bathroom door when he stops and blinks. “I don’t get to request it?”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang laughs. “No?”</p><p class="p1">“Huh.” Wooyoung grabs his shoes, waves, then follows San through the Jack-and-Jill doors.</p><p class="p1">When Wooyoung doesn’t shut the door behind him, San does it for him. The room looks as it always does—Mingi’s bed always one of two poles, occupied with the blankets tossed about or unruffled and well-made, the latter at the moment—but the air feels weird with San figuratively breathing down his neck. Wooyoung tosses his shoes to the floor, glances at him where he’s stood by the bathroom door.</p><p class="p1">“That was pretty dramatic,” says Wooyoung, “the way you…” He snorts, flicks his wrist. “Charged in there.”</p><p class="p1">“You seemed pretty comfortable.” San finally leaves the door, strides toward his bed and strips himself of his windbreaker. “I didn’t know you were friends.”</p><p class="p1">“We aren’t,” mutters Wooyoung. “I mean, we weren’t, at least an hour ago. But he’s cool.” Wooyoung assesses the sour twist to San’s lip. “I won’t steal your friends, or whatever, if that’s what you’re worried about.”</p><p class="p1">San tosses his jacket on his bed, makes a terse jerk of his head as his fists clench at his sides, tension flexing his forearms. His laugh is sardonic, and it fades fast. “I’m not <em>worried</em>.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung rolls his eyes, takes a few steps closer. “Fine, not worried. Jealous, then.”</p><p class="p1">San pinches the bridge of his nose, leans his weight into a hand he places on the bed. Wooyoung merely watches, brows in a furrow.</p><p class="p1">“Okay, why are you getting mad at me?” He breathes out a disbelieving laugh. “I came here because <em>you</em> asked me to, <em>at</em> the time you asked me to, and then you weren’t here. What did you want me to do?”</p><p class="p1">“I’m not—I’m not mad,” San grits out, and Wooyoung is toeing the line of blowing his top off and furiously begging San to <em>just</em> <em>fucking communicate</em>, when San comes to him and wraps his arms around Wooyoung’s shoulders, tucks his face low against his neck. San sighs out his mouth, and it’s hot and damp on Wooyoung’s skin but it sends goosebumps prickling up his spine. He crowds in impossibly close, tucks one of his feet between Wooyoung’s so they’re parallel from heel to toe, and Wooyoung doesn’t know what to do with his hands.</p><p class="p1">“Missed you,” San whispers, though it’s barely audible over the faint buzz of the heating. But Wooyoung feels his lips form the shapes of the words against his neck, so he can’t have imagined it. It’s only been a week since they’d gone their separate ways at the movies, he thinks, but doesn’t voice a thing. Aimlessly, Wooyoung stares at San’s desk, then brings a tentative hand to the small of San’s back, his other to the back of his head.</p><p class="p1">For a while, they don’t move. San shifts only to huddle closer, and every now and then to blink his eyelashes against Wooyoung’s skin. At first, Wooyoung’s heart is beating right out of his chest, shot up with a strange cocktail of worry and fluster, but as San’s chest expands and deflates against him with every breath, he finds he’s unable to place the source of that worry.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung smooths the back of San’s hair down, rifles his fingers through it gently. He smells like he’s been dancing all night, like he’d danced that extra hour, too, and the thought tugs at Wooyoung’s lips inexplicably.</p><p class="p1">He’s stroking his hand up the slope of San’s spine when San straightens to full height, eyes hooded. Wooyoung says nothing, tilts his head back just enough that he can feel San’s arms scaffolding his neck from behind. When San’s dark eyes drift down to his lips, Wooyoung smiles without thinking, palms warmth into the small of his back.</p><p class="p1">San dips his chin to kiss him, and it’s slow, gentle. Wooyoung can’t even find the hurry to reciprocate at first, warmed and dulled down to his very nerve endings, but as San presses in a second time, his closed eyelids a soft, rose petal color, Wooyoung opens his mouth for him.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung can feel it in the way San arches in toward him, the way his tongue curls against his own, the way his breathing gets shaky out his nose—can feel that he <em>wants</em>. And… Wooyoung had come all the way himself, hadn’t he? He’s not alone.</p><p class="p1">Their lips separate wetly when Wooyoung draws away. He tamely pets his fingers over the back of San’s neck, scans his face from the curve of his dark eyelashes down to his pouted lips. And he wants to tease him for it, tell San he doesn’t have to puff his lips out like that to look <em>pretty</em>, but then San meets his eyes openly, <em>waiting</em>. Wooyoung takes a breath, presses down on San’s shoulder, slides his hand around to the base of San’s hairline to urge his head downward.</p><p class="p1">San gets to his knees without pause. A spike of heat zips through Wooyoung’s body as he stares down at the top of San’s head, pets his soft hair. San’s forehead bumps his stomach and his fingers dig into Wooyoung’s thighs, oddly at rest.</p><p class="p1">“Go ahead, kitten,” mutters Wooyoung, and he’d hesitate as he can’t fathom where on <em>earth</em> he could’ve drudged up that vocabulary, but San only bites his lip and hums faintly, swift about undoing Wooyoung’s belt.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung swallows hard. The string lights cast a sheen of blue highlights over the black of San’s hair. His fingers are attentive and diligent as he slides Wooyoung’s belt from its loops and peels away the layers of fabric, just enough that he can pull Wooyoung’s cock out, wet it up and down and up again with his tongue so he can get his hand on him and stroke him to full hardness.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung reaches for the closest stable surface—San’s bedpost—digs bitten-down nails into the fake wood grain, rolls his lip between his teeth. He groans, stifled, feels his face, his everything flush with heat as San strokes him, slow and sure, dribbles spit from between his pink lips onto the head of Wooyoung’s cock.</p><p class="p1">He knots his fingers in the back of San’s hair. “Put it in your mouth,” he says, has to clear his throat when his voice comes out hoarse. San nods, sinks back on his haunches, and looks Wooyoung directly in the eye. He parts his lips, as if to make sure Wooyoung sees the flat of his tongue before it presses to the underside of his shaft and San takes him in.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung struggles not to react, fails if the pain of his gritted teeth against his inner lip is any indicator. “So you decided to be nice to me, hm? After you came home and threw a fit?” he whispers, sounding breathless even to his own ears. He moans shakily as San’s cheeks hollow around him with a mouthful of cock, tightens his grip on San’s hair and holds him in place where his nose nearly brushes Wooyoung’s skin. “S’good, Sannie. I like it when you’re nice,” he breathes, feeling San’s fingers curve over his clothed ass. For a moment, Wooyoung zones out, eyes on San’s swollen lips sealed around his cock, on the flutter of his eyelids, the spit collecting at the corners of his lips. Then he lets him go, brushes gentle knuckles over his cheek.</p><p class="p1">San doesn’t pull off fully, just drags in a ragged breath his nose, keeps sucking with gentle bobs of his head. Wooyoung can only let out a weak laugh, head foggy. He sways slightly on his feet, sucks his lower lip into his mouth. “You gotta dance tomorrow?” he asks, tucking a bit of San’s hair behind his ear.</p><p class="p1">San’s lips pop obscenely as Wooyoung’s cock slips from his lips. “No,” he says with a cough, and when he looks up, Wooyoung gets a gentle grip on his jaw to hold his chin up. San starts to smile, lips pulling slightly like he knows something he shouldn’t, and Wooyoung rolls his eyes.</p><p class="p1">“What is it?” he chuckles. Putting probably too much stock in his balance, Wooyoung lets go of the bedpost so he can fist his cock, press its head close to San’s lips. “Why’re you smiling like that, hm? Think you’re gonna get fucked?”</p><p class="p1">San’s eyes go half-lidded, and he breathes out something of a laugh as he tongues sweetly at Wooyoung’s slit. He nods his head a little dizzily.</p><p class="p1">It’s enough to make Wooyoung’s cock twitch in his hand. He hums, restrained, presses his thumb into San’s mouth. Watches San suck on it with enthusiasm. “You seem so sure.”</p><p class="p1">San whines, sinks his mouth over Wooyoung’s whole thumb before he pops off and knee-walks nearer to hug Wooyoung’s thighs, face pressed to Wooyoung’s tummy. “<em>Please</em>.” Wooyoung feels San’s hot, trembling breath against his stomach. “Please.”</p><p class="p1">“Fuck,” Wooyoung exhales. Any resolve he’d planned on having had just crumbled in the blink of an eye, or rather in the span of a singular word from San’s mouth. He nods, faint, mostly to himself. Then: “Get on the bed, Sannie.”</p><p class="p1">San springs to his feet, doesn’t look away from Wooyoung once as he walks backward, bumps his hip against the bedframe, hoists himself up. He settles cross-legged with his hands tucked in his lap. It’s endearing, and Wooyoung has to suppress a smile as he rids himself of his useless jeans and boxers, tugs his sweater over his head. Once he’s no longer blinded by fabric, Wooyoung can see that San’s gaze has darkened into something focused, intense, though he’s still hunched up small over his crossed legs.</p><p class="p1">“So you missed me, huh?” questions Wooyoung, traipsing toward the bed.</p><p class="p1">San abruptly looks down at his lap, cracks a smile. “Did I say that?”</p><p class="p1">“Maybe.” Wooyoung hikes himself onto the bed, crawls up to San, shoves him by his chest down onto the mattress. “Or maybe I imagined it.”</p><p class="p1">San huffs a breath as his back hits the sheets, unwinds his legs to make room for Wooyoung between. Wooyoung smirks, pushes up the hem of San’s shirt, leans down to nose into his navel, nip at his lower stomach. San arches into him, muscles tensing in his abdomen. “Did I?” He peers at San’s eyes, licks and kisses the skin of San’s belly, rucks his shirt up to his nipples. “Did I just… make it all up, San?”</p><p class="p1">San squirms, and his hands are floating and useless until he uses them to shrug out of his shirt. “No,” he answers quietly, palms settling on Wooyoung’s shoulders. “Didn’t make it up.” He sighs, but like he’s trying not to let all the air escape his lungs. “I did miss you.”</p><p class="p1">With his chin resting on San’s stomach, Wooyoung gazes up his body, trails fingers over the sparse hair leading into San’s briefs. “Yeah?” he murmurs, smudges his lips once more to San’s stomach before he gets onto his hands, crawls up over San’s prone form. His lips quirk. “Don’t be so shy about it.”</p><p class="p1">“But you’re teasing me.” San’s nails are gentle, almost ticklish as they scrape over Wooyoung’s shoulders. His gaze is lost somewhere on Wooyoung’s chest. “S’embarrassing.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m not teasing you.” Wooyoung smooths San’s hair from his face, then hums. “I mean—maybe a little.” He chuckles, plants his palms on the mattress to frame San’s chest, drops his head down close enough to rub their noses together. “But… you <em>can</em> tell me you missed me. That’s not embarrassing.”</p><p class="p1">San says nothing, sounds for a bit like he doesn’t even breathe, eyes evasive. But then he finally exhales, releases the longest sigh out his nose and wraps his arms around Wooyoung’s neck. “Then I missed you,” he mumbles, which has Wooyoung’s lips twitching helplessly at a smile. San tips his chin up slightly, just enough that he can whisper against Wooyoung’s mouth, “Been thinking about you. And just… how I want you inside me.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung makes a soft noise, shudders bodily and tongues at the seam of San’s lips. His eyes fall shut as he dips to kiss San, deep and wet but languid and almost still, and mutters as the spit strings break between their lips, “Then… we should give you what you want.”</p><p class="p1">San’s eyes are dazed as he giggles. “How generous of you.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung’s eyes go blank momentarily. “Watch it,” he mutters, eyes flashing at San as he shifts his weight onto an elbow, snakes his arm between them so he can ghost his fingers over the soft crotch of San’s sweats, over the tent of his cock and between his legs. His fingers rub between San’s cheeks through the layers. “Unless you wanna keep talking about missing me.” He half-smirks. “And thinking about me.”</p><p class="p1">San’s fingers rifle through the back of Wooyoung’s hair, and it’s addicting to Wooyoung, the way he can feel San’s hole clench through all the fabric. “Please don’t make me,” wheezes San, smile humorous and sweet.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung scans his face, silently amused. Then he pecks his chin, sits back between San’s spread legs and starts to pull at his boxers and sweatpants. “We’ll see about that. Just find me lube.”</p><p class="p1">San harrumphs quietly, but tugs his nightstand drawer open without looking. Once Wooyoung’s gotten his legs bare, he crowds up in between them, smoothing his palms over the backs of San’s thighs. He takes the lube from San, doesn’t hesitate to squirt some in his palm, slick both his hands so he can both wrap fingers around San’s cock and drag behind his balls, massage gently at the outside of his hole. He watches as San’s thighs flex, hears his stunted groan, but he’s a bit mesmerized by his own hands. A smile of satisfaction comes to Wooyoung’s face as San’s hips twitch from the bed as Wooyoung presses the tip of his forefinger inside San.</p><p class="p1">He feels a kick at his ribcage. Lazy to respond, Wooyoung gives San’s cock a slow stroke, thumbs over his tip and pets his finger deeper into him. Then he cocks his head to the side, rolls his eyes up to San’s. “Yes?”</p><p class="p1">San scoffs a bit, dragging his palms over the sheets. His tongue presses to the inside of his cheek as he smiles wryly, so, so utterly handsome, and turns his eyes toward the ceiling. “You look like you’re having too much fun without me,” says San, voice wavering.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung pouts. “Are you not having fun?” He works his finger inside San, eyes locked on his face, until he hits the spot that makes San’s lips tremble apart, his fingers clench on the sheets. “You’re not wrong, though.” Wooyoung shrugs, lets go of San’s cock to tug at his own. “I am having fun.” He smiles slyly, curls his finger inside San.</p><p class="p1">The back of San’s head thumps against his pillow as he throws it back, gasping. It takes him a moment to eye Wooyoung, jaw clenched.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung returns his gaze, takes a deep, long breath that he wills to be silent as he pumps his cock, stretches San open with a second finger. “Condom?” he brings himself to ask, like he needs to fill whatever silence is left over between their breathing and the squelching of his fingers.</p><p class="p1">San swallows, ghosts fingers over his own stomach like he does and doesn’t want to touch himself. “Did you bring one?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung blanches. “You’re gonna make me get up to go look for it in my jeans? I’m kind of busy.” Pointedly, he rolls the pads of his fingers into San’s prostate.</p><p class="p1">San’s lips curl deviously even as he moans, faint, and he shakes his head. “No.” Again, he reaches for the nightstand, now with even less finesse. “Just wanted you to admit you came prepared.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung <em>tsk</em>s his tongue, rolls his eyes toward the ceiling and back down to his fingers. “You texted me to meet you here at nine on a Friday because your roommate was gone, what did you expect me to bring? Casserole?”</p><p class="p1">San chokes out a laugh, throws a condom toward the foot of the bed. He blinks his eyes, slow and hazy, like he’s formulating a witty response, but all he ends up doing is digging his heels into the mattress, rutting down onto Wooyoung’s fingers and breathing, “Can you just come fuck me, please.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung’s lungs empty of all their air. Somehow, he still manages to get out, “Yeah,” as if it isn’t confirmation enough when his cheeks burn red-hot and he hastily tears into the condom packet and rolls it on, fingers clumsy with lube. And when he goes to crawl over San, San reaches out for him, tangles a hand into Wooyoung’s hair and slides the other between his shoulder blades. Wooyoung hums when San tugs on his hair, has to fight against his grip to peer down between San’s legs where he’s gripping his own cock to line himself up, and then he’s pushing into San, jaw hinging open with a groan.</p><p class="p1">San’s arms and legs lock around him as if he isn’t already holding Wooyoung in so tightly where their bodies meet, and the sweet noise that rumbles in his throat—arched and vulnerable—has Wooyoung going dizzy.</p><p class="p1">“God, you’re gorgeous,” Wooyoung mutters, watching San’s eyelids flutter. His hipbones nestle up against the backs of San’s thighs, and he mouths at San’s jaw, licks his way up to his mouth until they’re kissing again, breathless. He curves his spine, rocks tentatively into San, whose nails dig searingly into his scalp in response and whose tongue darts out to lick away the wetness Wooyoung left on his lips. “Feel so good ‘round me,” Wooyoung prattles stupidly, and San’s lips twitch like the fucking devil he is, eyes cast in blackened shadow by his eyelashes.</p><p class="p1">It’s harder to kiss when Wooyoung picks up the pace, gets his elbows under San’s knees and bends him practically in half because he just <em>goes</em> where Wooyoung pushes him, flexible and pliant and always, <em>always</em> trying to meet his eyes with that heavy-lidded smirk. Wooyoung bites at the freckles on his neck, revels in San’s soft, continuous stream of dulled moans, feels his own hot breath on San’s skin as he nips up toward his ear.</p><p class="p1">“You thought about this?” he asks him, voice unsteady with the pump of his hips. When San only squeezes the back of his neck, Wooyoung breathes, sternly, “<em>Sannie</em>.”</p><p class="p1">“Yes,” San answers promptly, “yeah, yes.”</p><p class="p1">“Thought about me?” Wooyoung pulls his earlobe between his lips.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, ‘bout you,” San whimpers, nails dragging across Wooyoung’s back. “So much.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung shudders, slack-jawed for a moment as his teeth scrape San’s jaw, pulls himself together enough to slink his arm out from under one of San’s legs, grab San’s cock between them. “Meet—meeting your expectations?” he breathes, feeling himself grin.</p><p class="p1">San’s response is a high keen, and his nails scrabble on Wooyoung’s back, like he wants to clutch him harder but his muscles won’t let him. Wooyoung kisses him right on the pulse in his neck, fingers toying nimbly with the head of San’s cock before he jerks him in time with his thrusts. San’s head lolls back on his pillow, then, and he exhales a ragged breath as Wooyoung feels his fingers on his wrist, stilling the hand on his cock, drawing it away to lace their fingers together on the mattress, spreading the stickiness from Wooyoung’s hand to his own.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung peers up at him questioningly, and his pace suffers because of it, but San doesn’t complain, just looks back at him with rosy cheeks and lips. He tilts his chin toward Wooyoung, draws him nearer with the arm around his neck, and Wooyoung takes a hint and seals their lips together, curls his tongue in San’s mouth and presses his weight into their tangled fingers on the sheets.</p><p class="p1">He rocks slower into San as not to fully break the kiss, feels a rushing sort of flutter in his ribcage when San cups his cheek in hand, breathes his name between their mouths.</p><p class="p1">“So good for me,” Wooyoung whispers back, “all for me.”</p><p class="p1">San thumbs over his cheekbone, and by now they’re not even kissing, just hovering so, so close, San’s lips tensing on every deep instroke. When his eyes threaten to close, Wooyoung grunts in refusal.</p><p class="p1">“Look at me,” he mutters. San’s eyelids flutter open, and he clenches tight around Wooyoung, holding him in. “Fuck,” gasps Wooyoung, tempted to laugh because San’s eyes are sneaky and mirthful, but they’re also so soft. “Want you to come for me,” he tells San, nods and blinks heavily, “Touch yourself.”</p><p class="p1">San obeys. Wooyoung lays his forehead to his, grits his jaw when he feels San’s knuckles brush his own lower stomach, and San’s eyes are nothing but a blur of his very favorite color and feeling all at once, and when Wooyoung tucks his face into San’s neck, he sees that same color behind his eyelids.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung gets desperate, then, hearing San’s soft pants, feeling his arm fumble between them as he jacks himself off, and he drills his hips into San, both clutching hard at their adjoined hands, fingertips digging into knuckle bones. San cries, “<em>Wooyoung</em>,” when he comes messily between them, tensing and panting and slowly going slack in Wooyoung’s arms. And then he’s loosening their hands so he can drag Wooyoung up by his hair, press his come-slick fingers into Wooyoung’s open mouth. It sends Wooyoung into fucking oblivion like nothing else—he comes with his hips jerking into San, with his tongue between San’s fingers, the taste of San on his lips and tongue and throat.</p><p class="p1">Eyes closed, Wooyoung breathes through his nose; wants to keep San’s fingers where they are as long as he’ll let him. A sticky mess drips down his chin, but he doesn’t mind. His arms wobble as he holds himself up.</p><p class="p1">San pets upwards through the back of his hair where his scalp burns. Wooyoung feels his slick fingers gather up what’s seeping from the corners of his mouth and press it back in, and he sucks and laves until he only tastes San’s skin, finally peeling his eyes open enough to see where he’s going when he eases out of San and makes a lazy attempt to tie off the condom. He drops it on the floor, not in any mood to search for a trash can, and sags into the mattress at San’s side, slinging his thigh across San’s legs and his arm across San’s chest.</p><p class="p1">For a while, neither speaks. San’s wet fingers trace nondescript patterns into the hair on Wooyoung’s forearm. Wooyoung is distantly aware of the soft breaths he’s puffing against San’s shoulder, that the skin where he’s slung himself over San is getting adhesive with sweat. He then feels lips press gently to his forehead.</p><p class="p1">“Should probably clean up before we pass out,” mutters San.</p><p class="p1">“Mmm.” Wooyoung noses his shoulder. “I’ll do it.”</p><p class="p1">For a good minute, he moves not a hair, feeling his limbs and eyelids grow heavy. San huffs out a cute laugh, and, <em>ah, right</em>.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung peels open his eyes, grunts as he gets up on his elbow. In climbing over San, he gets totally derailed from his mission when he chances a glance downward, sees San with his hair fanned out on the pillow, a few strands sticking to his temples with sweat, red lips purplish under the blue glow of the string lights. The sight ties Wooyoung’s stomach into knots, and he groans, smashes his palm into San’s cheek to turn his face away. “I can’t look at you.”</p><p class="p1">“Mmf,” says San, and Wooyoung grins, leans down into his space to kiss him wetly, giving San’s upper lip a suckle before he finally tumbles off the bed.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung has the utter pleasure of seeing his facade in the mirror, freezing in shock when he’s waiting for the water in the sink to warm up. “Why didn’t you tell me I had jizz all over my face?” he calls out to San, scandalized.</p><p class="p1">Instead of a proper answer from the room at his left, he gets one through the closed door at his right. “Oh my god, shut the fuck up,” yells Yeosang, sounding muffled and pitiable.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung snorts too gleefully, grasps at the sink counter for stability. “Sorry!” he coughs out, rinses his face clean and likely gets water everywhere, nabs a bunch of tissues from the near-empty box, and makes his way back out to San.</p><p class="p1">San watches him approach, draped lazily over the sheets with his fingers laced over his chest, and Wooyoung hates that it lights a fire in the pit of his stomach, that he has to will a poker face on when he’s already so physically weary.</p><p class="p1">“Stop looking at me,” says Wooyoung, then grabs San’s wrist so he can wipe off his fingers. For a second, he thinks about them in his mouth.</p><p class="p1">“Okay.” San squeezes his eyes shut, and it makes Wooyoung giggle, much to his chagrin. As he wipes down San’s stomach, San begins to squirm. “Help me get the sheet off,” he tells Wooyoung, reaches over to pull up the corner of the fitted sheet.</p><p class="p1">“Are we really remaking your bed right now?” Wooyoung whines, standing uselessly at the bedside.</p><p class="p1">San’s eyes are still closed, so when he reaches for the other corner, he smashes his fingertips into the wall, winces, then goes about scrabbling at the sheet again.</p><p class="p1">“You can open your eyes,” Wooyoung deadpans.</p><p class="p1">“Mm.” San gets onto all fours, bats his lashes at Wooyoung. “There’s a wet spot on my side. I’m not laying on it all night.”</p><p class="p1">“Your <em>side</em>?” The mattress is three feet wide, arguably not splittable into sides. Wooyoung blinks, then decides to hastily change the subject, because there’s no denying the fact that he’s taken to sleeping between San and the wall. “Well, I’m not sleeping <em>without</em> a fitted sheet on a dorm mattress. Who knows what freshmen in the eighties did on that. Where do you keep your extras?”</p><p class="p1">San cringes, peers down at his naked knees on the stripped mattress. “You could’ve gone without saying that.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">They’re finally settled under the covers, sweaty skin on clean sheets, and the promise of a responsibility-free Saturday morning means Wooyoung doesn’t care much at all when his eyelids start to sag but San maneuvers a leg in between his thighs and kisses him slow. Wooyoung wants to bitch a little, bring up again the way San had so presumptuously stormed into Yeosang’s room, but San’s fingers caress lightly over his cheek and in between kisses the dark, crinkled moon-shapes of his eyes are warm enough to melt in that Wooyoung doesn’t have the heart to shatter the moment.</p><p class="p1">The fist that batters the door does it for him.</p><p class="p1">“San-ah!” shouts a distinctly <em>Mingi</em> voice. “You’re not answering your phone so I don’t know if you’re in there but you probably are and I have nowhere else to go, so this is me giving you a ten second warning to cover up anything I wouldn’t want to see!”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung eases his cheek onto the pillow. He closes his eyes, bites the insides of his lips. “I thought you said he’d be gone tonight,” he whispers.</p><p class="p1">“He was supposed to be!” San hisses defensively. When Mingi starts counting down from ten, they hear the echo of another door unlatching in the hallway.</p><p class="p1">“Dude,” scoffs Yeosang, sounding irate. “Quiet the fuck down. Literally, there’s not a person alive on this or the adjacent floors who <em>didn’t</em> just hear you.”</p><p class="p1">Mingi hesitates. “Are you implying there’s dead people on one of these floors?”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang doesn’t reply.</p><p class="p1">Mingi huffs a sigh. “But—I don’t know if San and—”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang snorts. “Yeah, they’re in there. Good luck with that. But shut up, would you?” The creak of a door—“Night, Mingi”—and its slam.</p><p class="p1">Something thumps dully against the door. Mingi sighs. “Okay, coming in,” he announces at a more tolerable volume, and San violently tugs the sheets up to their chins.</p><p class="p1">Mingi slips inside—the yellow light of the hall bleeds in in a flash, gone just as quickly as the door closes—hiding his face behind his backpack. “San?” he says hesitantly, and Wooyoung stares at San’s profile.</p><p class="p1">San massages at his brow. “Why—”</p><p class="p1">“Hongjoong-hyung is sick and Seonghwa-hyung’s taking care of him so I didn’t want to bother them, and Jongho’s apparently trying to get laid tonight and, like, I didn’t want <em>anything</em> to do with that, so I thought I could take the train down to see Minho for the weekend but he had a midnight flight home—fuck, it doesn’t matter why, this is just the kind of shit that happens when you give me four hours’ notice to evacuate the dorm so you and Jung can do—whatever!” Mingi fumes, still behind his backpack, an accusing finger pointed in the approximate direction of San’s bed. “I ran out of options, okay?!”</p><p class="p1">San fishmouths, looks to be searching the ceiling for something to say. Naturally, Wooyoung blurts, “You kicked him out?” and cackles.</p><p class="p1">San’s cheek dimples sheepishly. He clears his throat. “Sorry I made you run around, man,” he says to Mingi, a paltry apology that goes ignored as Mingi marches toward the windows, muttering, “I don’t care if you get frostbite, just open a fucking window, Jesus, it’s ripe in here.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung clutches at San’s arm, buries his grin in his bicep. “You should’ve tried Yunho,” he offers—to Mingi, that is, even if he directs his voice into San’s skin.</p><p class="p1">Mingi doesn’t acknowledge his suggestion. For all Wooyoung knows, Mingi could’ve gotten a face tattoo within the past week, as he’s still fully concealed behind his backpack. “Okay, uh. I’m gonna shower… and sleep for twelve hours,” sighs Mingi, striding toward the bathroom. “In my own bed, just to be clear. Bye.” The bathroom door closes and the shower turns on in the same beat.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung peeks at San, who’s smiling to himself, again watching the ceiling. “Poor thing,” says Wooyoung, then promptly stifles another laugh.</p><p class="p1">San wiggles to get an arm around Wooyoung’s shoulders, draws him in close. He hums. “I’ll buy him boba twice a week for the rest of the semester. He’ll be fine.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung lifts a brow. “Am I really worth that much?”</p><p class="p1">San’s smile turns wry. He rolls off his back to octopus himself around Wooyoung. “If that were the metric you’d be worth about eight large brown sugar pearl matcha lattes,” he mutters into Wooyoung’s neck.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung frowns thoughtfully, settles his palms on San’s warm, broad back. “Yeah? That’s better than I thought.”</p><p class="p1">San snorts. Squeezes him tighter. “You’re worth more than milk tea, dummy.”</p><p class="p1">“So, like… milk tea with ice cream on top.”</p><p class="p1">San shakes his head, or it feels like he does, chin tapping Wooyoung’s collarbone. “More.”</p><p class="p1">“So two scoops.” Wooyoung lets his eyes slip shut. “Of ice cream.”</p><p class="p1">“More.”</p><p class="p1">“Three—”</p><p class="p1">“Wooyoung-ah.”</p><p class="p1">“Mm?”</p><p class="p1">The way San draws back and looks him right in the eye scares the hell out of Wooyoung, particularly when he says… absolutely nothing.</p><p class="p1">“What?” whispers Wooyoung uncertainly. The sheet gapes between them, allowing the freezing air from the open window to rush into their warm swaddle. He jabs at San’s chest, pulls the sheets up higher. “San, what?”</p><p class="p1">San blinks, eyelashes aflutter. “Nothing. Just—I’m tired.” He relaxes into the mattress.</p><p class="p1">“Okay.” Wooyoung’s lips thin into a line. After a frozen moment, he rolls over onto his other side, practically melts with relief when San cuddles up behind him.</p><p class="p1">“Let’s try to fall asleep before Mingi gets out,” mumbles San into his neck, all hushed words from soft lips.</p><p class="p1">“Good change of plan,” agrees Wooyoung, “because, like… before he came back, I was gonna finger you again, and <em>then</em> get my eight hours.”</p><p class="p1">San lifts the sheets just so he bring the flat of his hand down on Wooyoung’s ass. Then he snakes his hand around Wooyoung to find his fingers, drags them out from under the sheets to press a kiss to the knuckles, and pats them safely back into place.</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">San’s nuzzling his head into the few inches of thigh between Wooyoung’s stomach and his laptop where it rests on his legs. Wooyoung freezes so his arms hover in mid-air, fingertips brushing the keyboard, until San settles with his nose against the hem of Wooyoung’s sweater. Just a few feet to Wooyoung’s right, Yeosang <em>oof</em>s when San inadvertently kicks him in the ribs in the effort to get his legs comfortable.</p><p class="p1"><em>This isn’t a thing we do,</em> thinks Wooyoung. <em>Or is it?</em></p><p class="p1">He glances at Yeosang, who, in a fit of annoyance, yanks off San’s shoe and chucks it toward the window they’re facing. Then he hisses, “Oh, god, bad idea, regrets, <em>regrets</em>,” when he’s left face-to-face with San’s sweaty socked foot.</p><p class="p1">They’re in the library, the sky darkening outside. Just an hour earlier, Wooyoung had been on his way into said library when he’d halted mid-step at the sight of San hunched over on one of the benches outside, gaze intent on his phone.</p><p class="p1">Inside Wooyoung, a turbulent debate had promptly ensued between his head and heart—would it be worse to stride right past San as if he didn’t exist, risk San noticing him anyway? Or would it be worse to interrupt the flow of San’s Wooyoung-free day by inserting his presence where it didn’t typically belong? The latter thought made Wooyoung’s nose twitch. Should he draw up a pie chart detailing<em> locales of time spent with San</em>, the biggest chunk of the pie would belong to <em>San’s bed.</em></p><p class="p1">But San could’ve been waiting for someone else, or had somewhere to be before the clock struck five, or—</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung’s legs decided for him.</p><p class="p1">He’d sauntered up to San, stood directly in front of him, close enough to kick his ankle with the toe of his boot. Which he did. San’s head snapped up, eyes fluttering in a series of bewildered blinks, before he’d grinned and shot to his feet, only to seem to not know what to do with his hands.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung could commiserate.</p><p class="p1">“Hey,” San breathed, and on another, slightly delayed exhale, he added, “Wooyoungie.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung snorted. “Hi yourself.”</p><p class="p1">“Are you—”</p><p class="p1">“I was just going in.” Wooyoung flapped a hand vaguely toward the glass doors of the library. “And I saw you.”</p><p class="p1">“Mm.” San scanned his face, smiling. “Studying?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung returned the smile ruefully. “I have a paper due at midnight.”</p><p class="p1">“Right, right.” San blinked quickly, scratching the freckled side of his neck. “You said.”</p><p class="p1">“Did I?” Wooyoung reflected. And—yes, it’d only been that morning that San had sent him another pouty, sleepy selfie when Wooyoung had adamantly told him <em>im only free after 11:59:01pm. and youll have to send a palanquin and at least 2 bearers if you wanna see me.</em></p><p class="p1">“I didn’t bring a palanquin,” said San, appropriately timed. He chuckled. “But I’m waiting for Yeosang, so maybe I can hypnotize him into carrying you up the hill with me.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung smirked, amused. “Hypnotize?”</p><p class="p1">San nodded fervently. “There’s no wheedling with Yeosang. Or buying his love with brown sugar matcha milk tea. You can sometimes get to his heart through his stomach, but he very rarely leaves himself vulnerable to being manipulated by hunger. He’s good about eating. Regimented. So... hypnosis might be my only option.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung had wanted to kiss San, so, so very badly, but he’d only pressed his lips together in a tight, genuine smile, reached up to prod at the black beret on San’s head. “I like this.”</p><p class="p1">“Hm?” San’s brows lifted, like he’d forgotten the hat was on his head. “Oh, oh. It’d look better on you, though.” He swiped it off in a hurry, left his hair flying in a number of different directions, and carefully fitted it over Wooyoung’s head, leaving his parted bangs visible in the front.</p><p class="p1">Yeosang had appeared at San’s side, squinting at Wooyoung over San’s shoulder, crinkling plastic wrapping between his fingers and munching on a chocolate cream bun.</p><p class="p1">Before Wooyoung could croak out any sort of excuse for them playing dress-up outside the library, San noticed Yeosang hovering, took both of them by the hands and tugged. “You’re late. Wooyoungie has a paper due at midnight. How many pages does it have to be?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung glanced at San. “Six.”</p><p class="p1">“How many do you have?”</p><p class="p1">“Zero.”</p><p class="p1">San suppressed a smile, then whipped his head to the other side to look at Yeosang. “You hear that, Kang Yeosang? No distractions. We’re on lockdown.”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang side-eyed them both. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”</p><p class="p1">And an hour later, Yeosang has San’s foot worming its way underneath his thigh, and Wooyoung has a lapful of San’s head and half a page written. They’re on a three-seater couch together, tucked away behind layers and layers of bookshelves in the back corner of the floor. There’s a pair of girls at a small table nearby, but otherwise, they’re isolated, any conversation a hushed, distant hum.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung pets his fingers into San’s soft hair, instantly gratified by the appearance of his dimple.</p><p class="p1">“Got bored,” mumbles San, eyes sleepy.</p><p class="p1">“Mm.” Wooyoung presses his thumb into the divot on San’s cheek. “S’kind of hard to type with your big head in my way,” he whispers, and San cracks open an eye. Pouts.</p><p class="p1">“Sorry. Am I distracting you?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung says nothing. Vows not to crack a blowjob joke when San’s got his head on his crotch. “I have an idea,” mutters Wooyoung, lifting his laptop and nudging at San with his thigh. “Get up.”</p><p class="p1">San sits upright on the cushion between Wooyoung and Yeosang. Wooyoung shifts to sit up against the armrest, bends his legs and spreads them, laptop balancing precariously in his hand. He slaps the cushion between his legs. “C’mere,” he mouths, and San comprehends, scooting his ass backward until he’s between Wooyoung’s legs. Wooyoung smiles into the mouthful he gets of San’s hair, and hooks his legs over San’s thighs, finally lowering his laptop onto San’s stomach. “Can you, like—kind of hold this for me?”</p><p class="p1">San hums in affirmation, lays his head back on Wooyoung’s shoulder, shifts his thighs so they’re bracketing Wooyoung’s laptop. “Yeah?”</p><p class="p1">“Mhm.”</p><p class="p1">San pets his hands up and down Wooyoung’s quads, then resolutely folds his hands over his chest. “I’ll be good,” he whispers, turns his face into Wooyoung’s neck. “Go on. Fighting.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung snorts, finds his place in the document again. It’s marginally harder to breathe with San’s weight against him, marginally harder to <em>think</em> while he can smell San’s shampoo, can feel his warm breath on his jaw.</p><p class="p1">“Gentle reminder that even though the sun has set, this is still a public place,” Yeosang says lightly without looking up. He’s lodged himself into the opposite corner of the couch, laptop perched on the arm of the couch. “I can very easily pretend I don’t know you and go report you to the security guard.”</p><p class="p1">“Wooyoungie,” San hums into Wooyoung’s throat, “he feels excluded.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung smiles before he can stop himself from reacting. His right hand busy jabbing out the final word to a sentence, he runs his left up San’s chest, then points at the floor directly beside them both. He simpers, “Yeosangie, I have two hands. One for working, one for loving. Come sit and I’ll give you a head massage.”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang laughs suddenly, far above acceptable library volume, has to clamp a hand over his mouth when the girls at the table shoot daggers his way. He gives them a timid wave, smiles in apology. “Um,” he whispers, returning his gaze back to Wooyoung and San, rubbing a fingertip into the inner corner of his eye, “yeah, no. I don’t want any part in whatever’s going on over there.”</p><p class="p1">San pouts against Wooyoung’s neck. He can feel it. “Not even a little bit?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung nudges San’s temple away with his chin, blows a raspberry to get a few strands of San’s hair off his lower lip. “We’re being perfectly civil over here,” he asserts, training his eyes on his laptop again.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">With all his research gathered up, Wooyoung ploughs through three pages in the next hour and a half. He has to blink blearily away from the blue light of his screen when San speaks into his ear—he thought he’d been asleep against him.</p><p class="p1">“Baby,” whispers San.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung huffs out a breath, scrolls through his lengthy research doc. “You talking to me?”</p><p class="p1">San pinches him on the thigh. “No, I’m trying to telepathically communicate with that girl over there. Think she heard me?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung chances a glance. She’s fallen asleep on her textbook. “Try a little harder, maybe.”</p><p class="p1">“Mm. Good thing I’m actually talking to you.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung smirks, bumps his chin to San’s cheekbone. “What do you want.”</p><p class="p1">San sighs, deep and long and throaty, pats Wooyoung’s knee. Yeosang has pulled over-ear headphones on, so either he truly hears nothing, or is stellar at pretending he doesn’t. “Lemme taste you. Please.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung rolls his eyes, jabs San harder with the point of his chin. “I thought we were on lockdown. No distractions. I think that encompasses <em>no talking dirty.</em>”</p><p class="p1">“I’m not talking <em>dirty</em>.” San shrugs, which jostles Wooyoung’s arms. “Just. Just wanna taste you, y’know. Just for a little bit.”</p><p class="p1">“Taste me where?” Wooyoung arches an eyebrow at his screen.</p><p class="p1">“Your mouth.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung snorts. He says nothing for a few seconds, then, playfully resigned, he rotates his head toward San and sticks his tongue out through pursed lips.</p><p class="p1">San delights at this, if the glimmer of his smiling eyes is anything to go by. He tips his chin up, parts his lips so he can suckle on the end of Wooyoung’s tongue, which… has Wooyoung cackling, breaking contact to tip his forehead into San’s. “Good enough?” he mutters, eyes flickering toward the girls at the table. They’re safe.</p><p class="p1">“No,” huffs San, brows knitted. “Again.”</p><p class="p1">“You’re gross. Why do I deal with you?” Wooyoung sticks out his tongue again, offers San the flat of it this time, open-mouthed. San hums, licks at it ticklishly, slips his tongue into Wooyoung’s mouth to twist theirs together.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung’s eyelids glide shut. It devolves into a slow, messy kiss, and they don’t have much room to change angles, not with the way San’s locked between Wooyoung’s legs and balancing Wooyoung’s laptop between his own thighs like some precarious trapeze. But Wooyoung doesn’t mind, revels in the way San always kisses him like he does, well, want to <em>taste</em> him. The fact that Wooyoung kind of wants to devour him in the library stacks with poor Yeosang in hearing range passes through his mind, and it should be enough to jolt him back to reality, remind him that he can’t make out with San when deadlines exist. But it doesn’t. Perhaps for the better, his stomach does it for him.</p><p class="p1">He’s dragging his tongue over San’s bottom teeth when his stomach grumbles noisily. Wooyoung’s eyes go wide, lips pressing together, and San meets his eyes before laughing against his mouth, cupping the side of Wooyoung’s head rather tenderly.</p><p class="p1">“When did you last eat?” mutters San, while Wooyoung’s still flushing from embarrassment, half-wondering if his lower lip looks at all like it got hit by a baseball because it feels like it goddamn did.</p><p class="p1">He shifts behind San, tries to straighten his laptop, the screen of which has gone to sleep. “I had three Oreos at noon.”</p><p class="p1">San scoffs, lays his head backward on Wooyoung’s shoulder, then abruptly picks it back up again. He kicks his foot at Yeosang’s thigh until the latter is forced to surface from his intense concentration. “What?” Yeosang whispers, bringing the headphones down to his neck.</p><p class="p1">San continues to jab at Yeosang’s hip. “Go get us food.”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang’s eyes narrow. “What—no, I’m in the zone. Correction: <em>was</em> in the zone.” He glances at San’s offending shoeless foot. “You go.”</p><p class="p1">San pouts, absently scrapes blunt nails over the inseam of Wooyoung’s jeans. Wooyoung imagines he’s using his sparkliest eyes on Yeosang. “Come with me?”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang lifts an eyebrow, already settling his headphones on. “No. Somebody’s gotta save this end of the couch.” He nods at the students drifting into and out of their cozy clearing from the stacks. “They’re like vultures. They’ll swoop if they see <em>one</em> free spot. Wooyoung can’t be alone. If he says he’s saving <em>two</em> spots, it’ll just make them angry, and he won’t be able to fend them off.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung types his password into his laptop. “You make me sound so defenseless,” he grumbles.</p><p class="p1">Yeosang turns back to his screen. “You clearly haven’t experienced Kim Hongjoong in the thick of midterm season. He fought a football player on the quiet floor once after he’d spied on him <em>saving a seat</em> for an hour.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung frowns in thought. He thinks he could take Hongjoong. At worst, he’d stoop to sitting on him, or grabbing him by his dangly earrings.</p><p class="p1">“Fine,” puffs San, and he lifts Wooyoung’s laptop out of reach while he detangles himself from Wooyoung’s legs. Beside the couch, he stretches; his tight t-shirt rides up high on his stomach, and Wooyoung stares unabashedly until he realizes Yeosang is looking, and swiftly feigns interest in the pure darkness outside the windows.</p><p class="p1">San shrugs his jacket on, fetches his shoe from near the window. “What do you want?” He lowers down beside Wooyoung as he ties it on. “Closest I can think of are… pho. And pupusas. Unless you want, like, a gross sandwich from the cafe downstairs. The pupusa place is super fast, and I’d probably have to wait a bit at Saigon Express, but further up the hill there’s also—”</p><p class="p1">“Sannie, Sannie.” Wooyoung pats San’s cheek, then impulsively combs his hair into place. He’s still wearing San’s beret on his own head. “I don’t care.” He grins when San butts his head into his shoulder, feels his neck heat up. “Wherever has a shorter line. And, like—pork. For either.”</p><p class="p1">“Chicharron?” asks San, and Wooyoung’s only able to let out a questioning, clipped laugh when San clarifies, “it’s the pork they put in the pupusa.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung shakes his head. “Yeah. Good. Fine.” He smacks a hand on San’s arm. “Godspeed.”</p><p class="p1">San smiles down at him as he straightens to full height. Yeosang has already tuned them out, so in utter San fashion, he bows over him, palms pressed to the couch cushions at both sides of Yeosang’s shoulders, noses flirtatiously into his space. Impressively, Yeosang doesn’t flinch, just pauses whatever he’s doing and clears his throat. “Chicken and cheese pupusa?” they both murmur, identical in tempo and tone, which has San toppling over the arm of the couch in laughter, Wooyoung clutching his own to his chest when he lets out an unfortunately disruptive peal of his own, and Yeosang lowering his head to his hands, smile hidden.</p><p class="p1">Once San’s gone and Wooyoung and Yeosang have spent fifteen minutes in dead silence to repent for their earlier clamor, a message pops up at the top right corner of Wooyoung’s laptop screen. He arches an eyebrow at the contact name, then peeks around his screen at Yeosang, whose countenance is remarkably expressionless.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Kang Yeosang</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Hey</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">bb why are you texting me from 3 feet away</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">The dude who just sat down over there was my RA last year</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Not even kidding he’ll get us kicked out if we breathe too loud</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">oh shit</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Yeah</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">K</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">what is it</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">What is what</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">do you just really wanna breathe loud or were you tryna tell me smth</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">O right.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">go on</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">your in love w me arent you</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">its ok ive been suspecting</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">your hot but i have a whole speech ready to let you down easy</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Lol *you’re and also that’s kind of a bizarrely germane guess</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">pls dont make me dictionary that</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Lol</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">i literally hate that you type that</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">What</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">““Lol””</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Lol what else am I supposed to say</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">idk forget about it</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">go on</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">O yeah</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">So</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">San is like</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Totally obsessed with you</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">He really likes you iykwim</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Why did you stop responding I can see you</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">sry im here</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Yeah I know you’re “there” I can see you</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p class="p1">Wooyoung shoots a glare at Yeosang’s profile, but he’s not looking, much as he claims to be.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Kang Yeosang</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Anyway</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">It’s totally obvious</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">At least to me</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">And Mingi</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Anyone with even a modicum of social awareness</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Idk how long it’s gonna take him to tell you</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">And I feel like I’m pretty good at reading ppl. So I think you like him back.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">whats w the periods</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Shut up</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">But in case I’m wrong about that I don’t want it to crush him when he does come clean or whatever and you don’t reciprocate</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">I should’ve probably said this sooner bc like</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">I was just gonna say “before he gets too attached” but like he already is and I don’t even wanna know what more attached than right NOW looks like yk.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Yeahhhhh so</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Just wanted to</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Alert you to that</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">I mean it’s totally obvious like I said but you’re probably in like “he loves me not” denial or smth so you don’t realize it</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">So just take my word for it</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">I’m always right</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Alright that’s that</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Not really my business but I had to put that out into the universe</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Just acknowledge that you read those and we can move on</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p class="p1">They make brief eye contact; the apples of Wooyoung’s cheeks are red as he tips his chin. Yeosang smiles tranquilly, turns away.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Kang Yeosang</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Good</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Moving on</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">I’ve tentatively settled on a choice for your polymer animal</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">lets hear it</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">A seal</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">wtf</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>gotta go - chung ha<br/>labyrinth - gfriend<br/>so bad - stayc<br/>love talk - wayv</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. faded</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>San has a finsta.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Hyejin departs on a ski trip with her friends for the weekend, which means Wooyoung and Yunho have to maximize their Hyejin-free seventy-or-so hours that begin ticking down on that Friday evening in early December.</p><p class="p1">They start with turning the heat on full blast—their room is bone-chilling at best, and they can never have the door open to let in the heat from the living room lest she complain about their noise level, not that the useless plank of wood that is their door does much for blocking sound waves—doing a massive, collective load of laundry—her room shares a wall with the washer and dryer, which thrash wildly when they’re stuffed full enough—and throwing two pans of gooey brownie mix in the oven. They’d be fine doing the latter anyway, but it’s a weight off their consciences when she’s not there to read aloud the nutrition facts off the box.</p><p class="p1">But when Hongjoong arrives, Seonghwa’s arm in one hand and a baggie of weed in his other, they have to sacrifice the heat for cracking open a window. Yunho fulfills his utilitarian purpose as a tall person by taping plastic bags over the smoke detectors.</p><p class="p1">He also brainwashes everyone into thinking Wooyoung can’t roll a perfectly satisfactory joint—which he <em>can</em>, and to be completely fair he was already fucked up that <em>one</em> time his grip slipped attempting to seal it and he stuck his tongue directly into the bud—so Yeosang steps up to the plate, and the confidence in his skill seems to be unanimous. Wooyoung pours cheap red wine into Hyejin’s pink martini glasses, and Yeji’s only come through the door when Jongho spills his down the front of her cream sweater, so they demote him to a coffee mug and offer Yeji one of Yunho’s old EXO-emblazoned shirts.</p><p class="p1">The sound of the oven chiming snaps Wooyoung out of his trance at the dining table between Yeosang and Mingi, watching Hongjoong and Seonghwa shotgun, nestled up into the couch’s corner. It’s probably for the best.</p><p class="p1">He scoots his chair out from the table, picks his way around Mingi, weaves between Yeji and Lisa and Jongho sat cross-legged on the carpet, and scampers his way into the kitchen, where he slaps on an oven mitt of dubious origin—it looks like it’s suffered several a war, its bright rooster pattern charred to blackness in places—and pulls out the trays of brownies. He’s just meticulously checked their doneness with a toothpick and turned off the oven when he hears Yunho laugh, “Why is iNachos liking all my Insta pics?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung shuffles to the living room doorway. Yunho’s shoving his phone into Yeosang’s face, the screen littered with notifications.</p><p class="p1">San, slumped on the floor with glazed-over eyes fixed on his phone and only his head propped against the couch, pulls the joint from between his lips and mutters, “Shit, am I the wrong account?”</p><p class="p1">“Nachos?” Lisa perks up. She takes the joint when San proffers it. “I swear someone just said there’s nachos.”</p><p class="p1">“No, not real nachos, just Instagram user <em>iNachos</em> spamming me—hey, you’re only liking pictures of Wooyoung!” yawps Yunho, phone held inches from his eyes.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t care about your other posts,” grumbles San, kicking at a leg of Yunho’s chair. “Fuck, there’s no more. I went all the way back to 2013. Yunho-yah, do you remember tagging your first post ever of the blandest-ass sandwich I’ve seen in my life with <em>#lunchtimeyoloswag</em>?”</p><p class="p1">Yunho snorts. “I do now.”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang is diligently rolling another joint. “Don’t sound so condescending, San, I bet Yunho was really cool when he was fourteen,” he says. Then his phone lights up beside the packet of rolling papers. “Oh, great, I’m next.” San snickers by the couch, folds his arm behind his head. “That’s the only one, San-ah, I’ve known him as long as you have.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung pouts. “Why are you talking about me like I’m not here?” He steps decidedly over the threshold and gives Yeosang’s earlobe a tug.</p><p class="p1">“Oh hey! Didn’t see you there,” Yeosang says mock-kindly, greeting him with a plastic smile. “Here, for you.” He gives Wooyoung the freshly-rolled joint. Wooyoung accepts the gift, but also steps into Yeosang’s space, forcibly hugs his blonde head to his middle.</p><p class="p1">“What’s… <em>iNachos</em>?” Wooyoung frowns, releases his hold on Yeosang so he can squat beside his chair—and so Yeosang can breathe—and paw at Yeosang’s thigh until he lights the joint between his lips for him.</p><p class="p1">“San’s finsta,” Mingi answers too quickly.</p><p class="p1">“Yah!” hisses San, but Mingi continues:</p><p class="p1">“<em>I nachos</em>… Choi San. You know? But by the time you figure it out, it’s not even funny anymore.”</p><p class="p1">“You’re just jealous your name anagrams aren’t as cool as mine,” San says. When Wooyoung looks over, San’s avoiding his eyes. “<em>Mini gongs</em>.”</p><p class="p1">“I thought I won, though,” Yeosang interjects. Wooyoung takes a long pull off the joint that leaves him coughing profusely, yet still he watches San. Nothing. Yeosang gives him a weak pat to the back, says, “‘Cos mine had <em>gay San</em> something something.”</p><p class="p1">San bursts into laughter, drops his phone to clap his hands. “Fuck, you did have <em>gay San</em>.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung drifts toward the couch, takes a seat right beside San’s head. Yeosang slaps the table suddenly, giggles out, “Wait! Wait, I remember: <em>gay San on keg</em>.”</p><p class="p1">San slides fully off the couch, rolls onto his side on the rug, squeaking out a louder laugh. Mingi’s chair screeches as he scoots from the table, eagerly shouts, “San at Pi Kapp freshman year!”</p><p class="p1">San wheezes, mimes waving a white flag of surrender as he props himself on his elbow. “That was once. I’ve strictly been <em>gay San </em>no<em> keg</em> ever since.”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang hums, gazes out the window nostalgically. “<em>Gay San on keg</em> did not end well.”</p><p class="p1">“He was fine until he did the backflip,” says Mingi. Yeosang cringes in sympathy.</p><p class="p1">“But I stuck the landing,” San points out. Wooyoung, still silently observing, an outsider to their inside jokes, nudges his toes between San’s shoulder blades. San peers backward at him, eyes a bit bloodshot.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung sticks out his lower lip. “I didn’t know you had a finsta.”</p><p class="p1">San shifts to sit, but Wooyoung thinks it’s only an excuse to evade eye contact. “It’s—dumb. Literally so dumb. Don’t worry about it.”</p><p class="p1">“But you follow <em>Yunho</em>?” Wooyoung pokes him again, this time digs his toes into San’s side. He’s unfairly hot, in a black turtleneck that hugs the curves of his arms and the dip of his waist. It’s only more unfair that he’s brushing Wooyoung off like this. “You follow <em>Yunho</em> and not <em>me</em>.”</p><p class="p1">San gives a half-roll of his eyes, which sets Wooyoung’s insides on fire, but then San’s shifting off the floor, plopping down beside Wooyoung, laying his arm across the cushions behind Wooyoung’s shoulders. Wooyoung only stares at him stubbornly, the joint burning away between his fingers. He waits expectantly only for San to say absolutely nothing, so he turns his face ahead, sucks in another lungful of smoke, even though he’s already a bit tingly all over, his heart’s rapid lurching in stark contrast to the heaviness of his limbs. From the corner of his eye, he sees Hongjoong and Seonghwa are lazily making out. No else minds, but they’re now inches from Wooyoung, and he can feel the shift of the couch cushions when Hongjoong hikes Seonghwa’s leg across his lap. It winds him up tighter, makes his face burn hotter. He cranes his arm across San’s lap to stub out the joint on someone’s abandoned plate on the side table, sits right back up like he hadn’t just stuck his hand between San’s legs to reach it.</p><p class="p1">“Are you mad at me?” mumbles San. Wooyoung barely hears it.</p><p class="p1">He shrugs his shoulders, bites the inside of his lip. Watches Yunho rise from the table to go slice the brownies now they’ve cooled. “Why do you hate me,” whispers Wooyoung eventually. He tilts his head toward San, looks at him long enough to watch him grin. Wooyoung's eyes flash away spitefully. “Don’t—”</p><p class="p1">“You think I <em>hate</em> you? ‘Cos I didn’t tell you about my finsta?” San chuckles, strokes his fingertips through the back of Wooyoung’s hair.</p><p class="p1">“Stop laughing.” Wooyoung shakes his hand off with a rapid jerk of his head that leaves him dizzy. “You wish you could fuck Yunho instead of me?”</p><p class="p1">“What,” San breathes, and he doesn’t <em>listen</em>, just keeps laughing, cups Wooyoung’s cheek in his warm palm. “I can say with… a <em>thousand</em> percent confidence that I’ve never even thought about doing that.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung is inclined to believe San. But San’s voice could sell him anything. Even a blanket with sleeves. “You’re selling me a Snuggie,” he whimpers pitifully, eyes cast down to his lap.</p><p class="p1">San’s hand grows hesitant in his hair. He coaxes Wooyoung to face him, thumb windshield-wiping over his cheek. “Hey,” he whispers, kisses Wooyoung right under the eye. “You feel okay?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung shakes his head. He anchors his hand on San’s thigh, curls his fingers into the muscle there.</p><p class="p1">San nods, shifts so there’s no air at all between their hips. “Okay. You gonna be sick?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung shakes his head again. He’s undecided on that front, though—knows he wouldn’t puke up any wine if he went and stooped over the toilet right now. But maybe he’d spew a bunch of hot, glittery bath bubbles and harried butterflies. It feels like his stomach is full of them.</p><p class="p1">“You want something to eat? To drink?” San keeps pestering him. But <em>gently</em>. Wooyoung starts to smile the longer he has to shake his head. “Wanna get some air?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung sighs. The rich darkness of San’s eyes bleeds into the whole of his vision. “Yeah.”</p><p class="p1">San grabs his jacket from the floor, Wooyoung’s from the back of Yunho’s chair. “We’ll be back,” he informs Yunho, Mingi, and Yeosang at the table. Wooyoung stands, spine popping blissfully, and hops after San.</p><p class="p1">“You taking it outside?” asks Hongjoong suddenly, making use of his tongue now that it’s not down Seonghwa’s throat. He nods assertively at Wooyoung. “Beat him up, Wooyoung-ah.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung laughs brightly, lets San help him into his jacket.</p><p class="p1">There’s nothing but uneven concrete behind their building, and the singular lamp flickers like it’s about to conjure some terrifying creature of the night. Wooyoung drinks in the fresh air greedily, hands balled in his pockets, peers up at the opaque, clouded sky. San meanders into his periphery, and when Wooyoung glances his way, he’s got a cute face on, lips in a straight line, cheeks dimpled. The unreliable light carves those dimples out in dark crescents.</p><p class="p1">“Are you still mad?” asks San. He steps nearer to straighten the collar of Wooyoung’s jacket.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung unpockets his hands, stuffs them into San’s pockets instead. “Nah.” He kicks at a crack in the concrete. “Dunno why I thought I had any right to police whatever it is you do on the interweb. Follow who you want, and whatever.” He smiles sheepishly. “And… like, not that you <em>are</em>, because I really don’t <em>know</em>, but you can be with people other than me. Obviously.” After a beat, his nose crinkles up. “Sounds all selfish when I say it like that. I just mean it should be implied.”</p><p class="p1">San says nothing, smooths his palms out over Wooyoung’s shoulders. The chill in the air makes the tips of Wooyoung’s ears feel like icicles. Finally, San murmurs, “I used to do this… thing.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung’s lips twitch. “Fascinating.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m trying to figure out how to phrase it without making myself sound like an embarrassment.” San smiles wryly. “But that’s all it really was. Embarrassing. So.” He sighs out his nose, adjusts his grip on Wooyoung’s shoulders. “I used to, like…” His eyes wander. “Black out. All the time. Like, I’m more self-aware now, I think. Maybe. But—that’s not the point. The point is, you know, I used to drink a lot, black out, forget <em>everything</em>. This isn’t a sob story, by the way. It’s just… whenever I got like that, I’d post these monologues to my stories.” San cracks out a laugh.</p><p class="p1">“Snapchat, when we still used that shit. Instagram. But—yeah, I’d just, like, <em>talk</em> to myself. For, like, twenty fucking minutes. Sometimes it didn’t make sense, sometimes I was half-naked. Sometimes people were doing compromising things in the background. But I’d never remember ’til someone told me the next day. Or then it’d disappear forever and I’d never remember to look at all. That’s why I have this alter-ego, you know, the nacho thing. <em>In chaos</em> is another fitting variation, mm. Anyway, <em>there</em> I could rant about shit and not embarrass myself or other people or worry my sister into thinking I needed professional help. It was Mingi’s idea.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung leans into him. When San quiets, only smiles, bashful, Wooyoung bumps his nose against his cheek. “Okay,” he laughs softly, and his breath is a white puff in the air. “So… you don’t want me to see those?” He leans in to rest his chin on San’s shoulder. The lamplight flashes weakly again. “Sounds funny.”</p><p class="p1">San grunts. “Oh, yeah, you’d find them hilarious.” He crams his hands into his pockets, wiggles his fingers around until they’re comfortably cupping Wooyoung’s. “I don’t… I don’t mind being an idiot if it makes you laugh. But.” San’s sigh is warm against his neck. “But, like… lately, I haven’t been accidentally capturing anyone’s cocaine habit or ranting about who’s hottest in NCT. I’m not… not even drunk, usually. Nah, I just…” The next sigh is deeper, like it comes from the very pits of San’s lungs, but shakier, too. “Just go on and on about this guy I’m really into. Not—no, <em>into</em> sounds douchey. This—this person I have feelings for. <em>So</em> many feelings. Because I like to talk about him. I would all the time, if everyone let me. But nobody’d ever get anything done if I did.”</p><p class="p1">The breath that Wooyoung takes feels like it fills so much space between them, expanding his chest and stomach to their limits. And he doesn’t want to move, yet he thinks if he didn’t at least breathe, he’d pass out on the jagged concrete right there and then.</p><p class="p1">“So it’d be… super embarrassing, you know, if I followed him and he followed me back and watched me talk about his lip freckle or the part of his hair near his roots that’s less purple than the rest or how cute he looked in my beret or how I wished I had a palanquin or a whole fucking king’s guard so I could make sure he never had to walk a step when he was tired, which is something I never even thought I’d make myself <em>think</em> about.” A thick, hot, long silence in the cold. Then San exhales a laugh, swallows loud enough that Wooyoung hears it stick.</p><p class="p1">“Is Yeosang really always right?” murmurs Wooyoung.</p><p class="p1">San seems to be holding his breath when he answers, “What? Um—actually, yeah. As long as I’ve known him,” taken aback.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung steps backward, hands still in San’s pockets, but San’s hold on his hands is looser now, his palms clammy. He stares at the ground, his gaze like a tongue stuck to a frozen pole. But—you know, his eyes are stuck. Not his tongue. Wooyoung shakes his head, tries to screw it back on straight. “Remember when you said you weren’t a poet?”</p><p class="p1">San’s brow creases. “No,” he responds, quiet.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung hums. “Well, I do. Probably says more about me than I’d like it to.” He digs his fingers into the palms of San’s hands until they relax, until he can forcefully lace their fingers together inside the safety of San’s pockets. “But you should think about it, maybe. Poetry.”</p><p class="p1">San’s dark eyes flit to the side, pained. And Wooyoung knows he’s being an ass, but somehow he can’t stop. “<em>Wooyoung</em>—”</p><p class="p1">“I like you way more than normal,” Wooyoung utters. “Okay? I do. Stop—stop tensing up. It’s making me nervous.” He giggles suddenly, an appalling, ill-timed noise that rivals any of the worst he’s ever made around San.</p><p class="p1">San finally, <em>finally</em> looks at him.</p><p class="p1">“I like you so much,” mumbles Wooyoung, the ridiculousness fading from his tone as the breathlessness seeps in. “Please, just—I don’t want you to think otherwise just ‘cos I’m still high or can’t string together a sentence that makes sense because of—everything you just said.” His eyes dip to San’s mouth, watch the worry play out there. “In fact, um, I like you so much that I’d even dare to use the L-word—not… not lesbian, not that L-word, lesbians are great, but—the <em>other</em> L-word. And I’d cast you in my movie in a heartbeat. Not just ‘cos you have mad stroke game, but because I love you. Even if it’d be nepotism.”</p><p class="p1">San lets his bottom lip free from his teeth. Wooyoung bleeds for it, the way it’s so bitten, so worried. “You mean that?” he asks, and it comes out hoarse. San laughs wetly at the sound, makes to cover it with his hand, but it’s trapped between Wooyoung’s fingers and he’s not planning on letting go.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t <em>cry</em>,” Wooyoung breathes, stepping up close, nearly pitching all his weight on San’s toe. “Sannie!”</p><p class="p1">“I’m gonna cry,” San says resolutely, blinking at the sky above Wooyoung’s head. “It’s gonna happen.”</p><p class="p1">“Suck the tears back in,” Wooyoung demands. “Close your tear ducts.”</p><p class="p1">“I’ll try that, thanks.” San’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly. A smile stretches his lips.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung licks his lips, lets his eyes roam San’s face. “I meant it,” he mutters, an afterthought. Nods mindlessly. “Of course I meant it. I lie sometimes, y’know. To a lot of people. But not right now.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, great,” San whispers dryly.</p><p class="p1">“It <em>is</em> great.” Wooyoung bats his eyes, touches his chin to San’s. “I said the L-word. That’s pretty great, right?”</p><p class="p1">San looks at him, face neutral, for so long that Wooyoung has to wonder when he last blinked. He pries his fingers free of Wooyoung’s—both their hands are sweaty now—and brings them up to Wooyoung’s jaw, holds their foreheads together tight, tight enough that Wooyoung swears that under that clouded sky and the wavering lamplight, there’s some electrical current that zaps between their cores, shared. “It’s probably the greatest thing ever, yeah,” San agrees. He grins, toothy and wide, and Wooyoung thinks <em>that</em> might be the greatest thing, like, ever.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung’s head jerks backward when the flickering light catches on San’s face in a faint, orange glitter. A solitary tear, paving its glistening path down the hollow of San’s cheek. “I told you to close them,” he whispers, hooks an arm around San’s waist, thumbs away the tear, licks it off the pad.</p><p class="p1">“That’s the only one,” San says. “I promise.”</p><p class="p1">“Okay.” Wooyoung tastes the salt of San’s tear on his fuzzy tongue. He smiles. “Can I follow your finsta now?”</p><p class="p1">San breaks the electrical current, yelps out a laugh into Wooyoung’s shoulder.</p><p class="p1">“Also, who’s the hottest NCT member?” Wooyoung circles his arms around San’s waist, squeezing. “I think we need to start understanding each other on a deeper emotional level.”</p><p class="p1">“You guys alive?”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung peers over San’s shoulder at Jongho, who’s materialized at the foot of the stairs, hair orange under the lamplight.</p><p class="p1">Jongho half-smiles, eyebrows raised. “Sorry, Seonghwa-hyung asked me to check. I’ll tell him you’re… well. <em>Alive</em>.” He turns back up the stairs.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung tucks a smile into San’s shoulder, rubs his nose there. “You good, kitten?” he whispers.</p><p class="p1">San bends at the knees to come down to kiss him, gradually straightens to full height, holding Wooyoung’s jaw hostage the way he always seems to. Wooyoung finds he needs to catch his breath when San pulls back, sweeps his hair from his eyes and gathers Wooyoung under his arm. “It’s cold, we should go inside, don’t want you to get sick.” Then he screeches, “You better hold the damn door, Jongho-yah!”</p><p class="p1">The apartment is peculiarly silent when they shuffle in behind Jongho. Wooyoung shrugs one arm from his jacket, plucks a brownie from the half-demolished pan. Jongho settles again on the carpet between Lisa and Yeji, and Wooyoung’s feeding half the brownie to San when they both stall in the living room doorway, brownie crumbs on their lips.</p><p class="p1">The music is still pulsing and the air’s still smoky in the slightest, but everyone’s watching them with an avid curiosity. Everyone but Yeosang, that is, who’s facing the right way at the table.</p><p class="p1">“What?” says Wooyoung, with his mouth still full, hand cupped under San’s chin to catch crumbs. There’s an indistinct sliver of movement in the far reaches of Wooyoung’s line of sight, and then, like detonating bombs both, Mingi and Yunho leap from their seats with fervor, chairs rasping on hardwood and colliding with the walls behind them.</p><p class="p1">“He gave me the look!” Mingi hollers, whirls toward a grinning Yunho in astonishment, scrabbling for his wrist. “He gave me the—!”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung’s eyes widen to their brink when Yunho grabs Mingi by the front of his hoodie, hauls him close to kiss him on the mouth.</p><p class="p1">“<em>What</em>,” croaks Wooyoung again. Hongjoong squeals, rattling Seonghwa’s shoulder, and on the floor, Jongho looks on with big eyes and a tight-lipped, burgeoning smile.</p><p class="p1">Yunho breaks away, ears bright pink against the shocking blue of his hair. “Sorry,” he breathes, tunnel-visioning on the stretched fabric of Mingi’s sweatshirt.</p><p class="p1">“Well,” says Yeosang, “this got very friendcestuous very fast.”</p><p class="p1">Yunho sinks into his chair, though it’s now five feet from the table, so it’s a near-miss for his ass. Mingi deflates into the wall, dazed.</p><p class="p1">Lisa, manicured fingers still covering her mouth, slowly lowers them. She clears her throat, nods at Yeji and Jongho. “Your turn!” she teases, then reaches over to squeeze Yeosang’s knee. “Sorry, buddy, the last time I kissed a boy was in third grade, and I’d like it to stay that way.”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang smirks, smooths his fingers over his jaw. “It’s all good, noona.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung dusts the crumbs off his fingers, brownie long-forgotten. “What look?” he asks belatedly, turns a questioning look on San. “What look did you give him?”</p><p class="p1">San shakes his head. His shoulders twitch at a shrug. “I didn’t give him any look,” he swears, slipping his finger into Wooyoung’s belt loop. His eyes squint up, then, as he dimples at Wooyoung, and Wooyoung thinks, with a smitten, swollen heart, that that answers his question.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Seonghwa’s at the kitchen sink, scrubbing the baking pans despite all of Yunho’s <em>cross-his-heart-and-hope-to-die</em>s that he’d do them in the morning. Yeji, Lisa, and Jongho have passed out in a heap on Yunho’s bed, which means there’s a chance they’ll have to strip Hyejin’s mattress and borrow it for the night. There's no way Wooyoung is letting San leave his side tonight.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung rests his head on Yunho’s shoulder, and the frigid chill from the windows they threw open to air out the apartment tickles the back of his neck. But Yunho is warm against him. He probably hasn’t stopped his blushing in the last hour.</p><p class="p1">“Way to steal our thunder,” mutters Wooyoung. He glances up at Yunho, who peeks back through a crack in his fingers. Wooyoung laughs, rubs his chest, and Yunho closes the gap in his fingers, smile flustered.</p><p class="p1">“He couldn’t have stolen it if you didn’t even know you had it.” Yeosang sits down on Wooyoung’s other side. “Which… you definitely didn’t. Also, Hongjoong-hyung was spying on you two through the bathroom window.”</p><p class="p1">“You promised you wouldn’t tell!” Hongjoong admonishes from the kitchen.</p><p class="p1">Yeosang shrugs a shoulder. Then, right before Wooyoung’s eyes, he presents to him a small, spotted gray-and-purple seal in the palm of his outstretched hand. Wooyoung gasps, takes it with utter care.</p><p class="p1">“It’s so cute,” coos Wooyoung. He turns a blinding smile on Yeosang. “Just like me, right?”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang scoffs, taps Wooyoung under the chin.</p><p class="p1">“Look at the speckle under the left eye,” murmurs San from the floor. He’s got his back against Wooyoung’s shins, head tilted backward onto Wooyoung’s knees.</p><p class="p1">“I do have to credit Choi San with that,” Yeosang sighs.</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung hums with delight, sits up, scans the room. “Where should I put it? I want it always watching over me.”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang starts up a laugh, then, snatching the seal from Wooyoung’s hands. “Oh, no. No, no. You don’t get to keep it.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung blanches. “What?”</p><p class="p1">“I know, right?” San chuckles. “It’s some sick, twisted personal joke of his. He pretends like he’s made you this adorable, heartfelt gift, then proceeds to hole it away in his room.”</p><p class="p1">“It’s not twisted,” Yeosang argues. He pets the seal’s head with the tip of his finger. “It just means you’ll have to visit me if you ever wanna see it again.”</p><p class="p1">Wooyoung shifts off Yunho’s shoulder onto Yeosang’s, gathers him into his arms. “Sannie, he’s only twisted ‘cos he’s a softie. He’s worried once he shows you a token of his love, you’ll forget all about him, as if clay could plug the Yeosang-shaped holes in our hearts.”</p><p class="p1">Yeosang does not reciprocate the hug. He sits motionless in Wooyoung’s arms, but there’s a smile quirking his lips. “It’s a binding contract,” he says solemnly, laying the seal on his thigh. “Yunho-yah, you’re next.”</p><p class="p1">“Binding?” Wooyoung stares at Yeosang until he gets a nod of confirmation, then nuzzles into his shoulder, contented. “Right. Then… Yeosang, you should know it wasn’t San who dropped jungle juice on your dorm carpet. It was me. I dropped it.” Dreamily, he adds, “And then San kissed me for the first time ever.”</p><p class="p1">San bites down on a smile, eyes flashing from Wooyoung’s face to Yeosang’s and back. Wooyoung marvels at the curves of his eyelashes. Yeosang says nothing, but Wooyoung’s squished too close to observe his reaction. “I think you broke him,” whispers San.</p><p class="p1">“I hereby release you both from the contract,” Yeosang announces, and he makes to stand, but Wooyoung holds to him fast. He then nods at San, who takes it as his cue to roll over and wrangle Yeosang’s legs.</p><p class="p1">For a second, Yeosang stares emptily ahead. Then he sighs and says, “But as it happens, I’m in a good mood today. Probably because hyung always gets good weed, but also because I was right tonight. Twice.”</p><p class="p1">San blinks, chin in Yeosang’s lap. He and Wooyoung exchange a silent look. “About?” asks San.</p><p class="p1">“You can keep your contracts,” Yeosang concedes, laying his cheek to Wooyoung’s head. Wooyoung frowns, eyes still on San. “I really could see everything coming from a mile away.”</p><p class="p1">San reaches up to feel at Yeosang’s forehead with the back of his hand. Yeosang only snorts, brushes it away.</p><p class="p1">“Let me have my moment." Yeosang inhales and exhales meditatively, gives a faint shake of his head. "I did see it coming, but I should've planned for it better. It was a bad idea to agree to be suitemates with you, Sannie. To share a wall, no less. A very bad idea. Could I move somewhere else by next semester? Feasibly? It'd be my last, but... maybe Jongho has room. God knows he's not getting any. And I could get away from that... that stain. But... seriously. The amount of lovers' quarrels we'll all have to deal with just tripled in one night. I don't know how I'll..."</p><p class="p1">Yeosang's voice is a soft, steady rumble against Wooyoung's hair. The edges of the room go fuzzy and faded, and at the epicenter of it all is San, who's watching him back like Wooyoung knew he'd be. Wooyoung smiles, mouths that special word, just for him, and winks, and San breathes out his nose, tucks his smile into Yeosang's legs and then peeks back up, eyes shining.</p><p class="p1">Yeosang's dialogue screeches to a halt. "Yeah, okay, none of that," he states, waggling a finger between San and Wooyoung.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>gotta go - chung ha<br/>labyrinth - gfriend<br/>so bad - stayc<br/>love talk - wayv<br/>faded - alan walker</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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